the ocean writes

Of women like me

"Beautiful Women without Mercy"

Not because we do not love

But because we love too freely

Too much

Too brightly

And refuse to sacrifice ourselves

If you would like me to love you,

Darling,

Come with me.

Let me lay

Flowers on your hair

Kisses on your hands

Smiles on your lips

My head on your chest

Dance in the sunshine with me,

My love

Even when the storm looks

Maybe, I'll find myself a nice little two-bedroom house with a yard,

And leave one of the rooms untouched.

Maybe, I'll start a garden, fenced off and full of vegetables,

And leave one part of the plot alone.

Maybe, I'll have a two-half vanity that shares a sink,

And leave the right side empty.

Maybe, I'll have a shower with two cosmetics ridges in white acrylic,

And I'll leave one of them blank.

Maybe, I'll have a fridge I half-cover in things like concert tickets and preschooler's artwork,

And half of it will be plain metal.

Maybe I'll introduce myself to the neighbors, say "a friend of mine should be moving in soon, they're just working out of town right now,"

And they would make a flat concept of you in their heads.

Maybe, I'll get a bed that's just large enough for the quilts my mother made me, which is still too large for just one person,

And sleep only on the window-side.

Maybe, I'll just keep texting you about the inane things that go on in my life,

And hope you find one of them worth responding to.

Maybe I'll just keep looking after your mom's dogs,

Maybe I'll just keep babysitting for your dad,

Maybe I'll keep an eye on your favourite teachers,

Your favourite restaurants,

And new places for us to try together.

Maybe I'll realize that every person I try to flirt with, or talk to,

Reminds me of everything I love, loved, will love, about you.

Maybe I'll realize that I don't know your favourite drink, or your favourite colour, or the things that scare you the most (even when I have a good guess),

But I do know these things:

That the skyscraper on Locust makes you angry because their lighting designer had two colours off-set

That you hate shorts unless they're basketball or denim

That you love shooter games when you have downtime

And making fun of people who can't play them even more.

That you love being close to someone, even when you don't admit it

That heights have never scared you

That you hate your dreams of playing professional soccer were left behind

That you miss old friends

That you care more deeply about others than you like them to think

That you love night-drives more than most anything

And that you date people you know won't last.

So maybe, I'll just carve a You-Shaped Space into my life,

Not touching

Not speaking

Barely breathing

And unhurried.

I like basking in your presence

Lazy days and quiet nights

Going

Where you take me.

No push

No pull

No force

Just slowly, slowly,

Like you are the wind

Or the current

And i

Am a cottonwood seed

Finding a home.

And maybe,

Just maybe

Rainy weekend mornings under linen sheets and too-heavy blankets

Sunshine days where we text instead of talk because our schedules are opposite

Breakfast-for-dinner meals because it's one of the only things we can agree on (but I still keep my fillings separate, because you think that greens have no place in eggs)

Once-a-month dinners together: chinese, Indian, italian, Mexican, thai, whatever we have the spare cash for

A tiny apartment with a tiny balcony just large enough for the too-delicate set of tableware my grandmother wanted to get rid of

Walls covered in shelves, blended with plants and cds and theatre posters and movies and video games and so many books

The record player you finally bought and at least one Jack White vinyl to make me mother happy, plenty of my jazz, and some of your classic rock

Burnt pans stuck on with cheese because one of us got distracted with a phonecall

"Who's doing the dishes tonight?"

You coming to my schools show-and-tell, or graduation, or fashion show, or field trip, because the preschoolers do everything fun before noon, and theaters most often go nights

You dropping in while I'm doing paperwork, and leaving with your dinner and dropping off a kiss to my head

Weekend dinners at the parents' houses, because you're already my mother's favourite, and your dad already calls me Kid #5

Walks in the park where we talk about getting a dog when we get a house

Sleeping facing one another, where you're on your back and I'm holding your hand

Mornings alone where I'm in my bra and underwear and the silk robe I definitely took from my room at my grandmothers and you're in boxers and a sports bra, and it definitely turns into us being late to wherever

Hugging your shoulders from behind while you sit on the couch and sighing hugely because people are ridiculous, even when we love them

Pinch her chin that way

Hold her face in place

Brag to family about "giving her the stick"

Call to her and ask if she wants to "explain herself"

Intentionally bait us to act

In the way you want.

To hell with you.

You make my teeth itch.

You rankle my soul.

You do not deserve to treat

Anyone that way.

I would rip your throat out

With my teeth

Were it not

For the rule of beasts.

First period English

My too hot tea steaming

Overtop

Of books bleeding dust

And ink.

Cozy thunder

Over cozy couches

And the last bits

Of dinner

Going cold.

Racing

To your car

In a downpour

Because neither of us think

To bring umbrellas.

Driving to the city

And you reassuring me

That it sounds worse than it is

Even though

I was never scared.

Never scared, never with you.

It's not that you were ever my shelter

Because I didn't want it.

And it's not that you taught me to dance

Because I already do that.

It's more that you were with me

And that made it all the more enjoyable.

If you had, maybe you would have seen

The new artists that are taking over the city.

They paint red hearts,

Under bridges

And overpasses

And along the interstate

So we can see them.

I love them.

And I love the city workers too, who think it's stupid to paint over something so kind,

So they paint over only the shape of it,

A mismatched grey-on-beige,

So you know what was there before.

And I know you couldn't have had a thing to do with them,

But part of me hopes one

is for me

From you.

A lot of little things remind me of you.

The lady who has trouble with her knee,

The soccer players,

The set of the shoulders of a statue I haven't seen in years,

The coffee shop you pretended not to like,

The grey Ranger truck,

The black guitar,

The alt-rock music that comes on the radio,

The plays at the outdoor theatre in the dead heat of summer,

Long, dry novels you couldn't sit through

Tattoo artists inked in black and gold and blue and green

The clear summer sky, bright blue and white with heat,

And the graffiti spilling over the downtown walls

I don't know what the point of this is, other than to say "I miss you".

God, she is beautiful first thing in the morning

She lays on her side,

Bent knees

Curved shoulders

Sheets fanned out behind her, and they look like wings.

She keeps her hands in front of her heart

And one of them rests on your wrist

Keeping your pulse

Keeping you safe

Keeps her safe too.

And in the gold light, she is unreal

Delicate

Ephermal

All pious lines and grace-given curls, like the angels in the corners of Renissance paintings.

You know that come another 30 minutes, you'll need to get up together

Get dressed

Drink coffee and tea with milk and honey

And go about your separate days

But she is what you'll come home to,

And that's all you can ask.

-

Because if I love you, even as a friend, I will fall asleep, whatever we're doing.

I will nap on the floor while we play Cards Against Humanity.

I will curl up in the oversized armchair in the living room while you yell at the TV.

I will drop my head against the window as we drive, comfortable in the low light and the smell of your soap.

I will lay contorted at the foot of your bed, while you have on late-night shows you can't stop laughing at.