미선

it was december 14th and i was drinking, alone

in my bedroom. i had just gotten off the phone with my ex-boyfriend,

who said i was beautiful. i was waiting for a call from the boy in stockbridge. 

i hadn’t spoken to him for a week and missed his gentle voice.

loneliness had taken hold of my common sense, go figure, 

i prayed for nights like these, once. i prayed to be

that woman in the film whose title i don’t remember;

i’ve been doing my laundry at 3am ever since noticing

the housekeepers never lock the doors.

i wait and watch the moon, usually

and wonder if you think of me. at all. it’s true that we share that moon, 

the same moon, but i suppose that doesn't mean anything. clichés rarely do. when i see stars, you see

a baby blue sky. i press flowers from my boyfriend. i asked him for them

over hot pot. his jumper looks like fifteen glistening rivers. when i see stars, you see 

a sky turning lilac; the sun is setting and the clouds are lakes or the lakes are clouds. his flat looks like roadkill but his window holds

my most insipid fantasies.

the machine seems tired; i've interrupted its sleep. shame on me.

my clothes are still damp. i throw my head against the wall over and over again, usually. it spins,

i see stars.

i was born looking for answers and finding blank slugs. 

we kick up dirt, then make flowerbeds. 

"there must be more than this," you say. 

so i search. i find

quail eggs. hushed voices. a subject i fail to understand.

i wait my turn and hope to know when it comes,

skipping stones across the keyboard in my bedroom. grand piano,

take me somewhere.

there is a cavity in the brain reserved for loneliness. 

as a child, i wanted to be a 

princess. then a revolutionary, 

inhaling hot air laced with lead,

not many little girls dream of a printing press in place of a magic wand or castle 

but i am certainly not special. 

not at all; we long for the same things. 

i carry a handkerchief and rule but they do not win me free drinks. 

I followed Grief down a dark hallway. She was beautiful and looked like you. Sometimes she would crane her neck and smile. I have done something splendid and you are not Grief anymore, I called out. I think you are Love but how can I be sure?

I pursued Grief down a winding hallway. She was beautiful and looked like you. A ghost was still steeped inside of me and the aching had become unbearable. So I had to do it or you would have been Grief forever, I insisted. I had to take control or the sadness would have killed me. 

And I am not sad, not now. I think you are Love but were you Love then? 

I severed Grief in two, famished; she looked so much like you. Change is coming, I cooed, stitching the pieces back together hurriedly. Change is on its way and you have to look like someone else or I will never be free from this. 

I am sitting alone in a recital hall.

A man walks in and out,

silently removing a red drumset

piece by piece. He smiles at me.

I wish I was a music student. I envy pianists.

I envy pianos.

My hands are raw for all the wrong reasons.

I cringe when people stare at them, though I know they can't help themselves.

I fumble and tuck and I cannot speak of my desires

when desire is what led me here.

I sing in the shower, like you. It's not easy to be special.

The ceilings here are high, unlike the

small, tightly packed band rooms of my childhood.

In all fairness, I can't quite quit what I never began.

I remind myself of that like it makes everything make sense,

or okay,

or no problem, but it doesn't.

My parents whisper to each other like I still want to

kill myself. I don't.

But I'm not sure why. I'm sorry.

I was kissing you. In the back of your car, where we always are. I think it was a red Subaru but that part is never the same. I guess I'm forgetful. Or I tend to be too focused on you and your lips and your eyes and your hands. And your smile, the smile I could feel coming on while we were pressed together. You were beautiful. You were like destiny, like the enemy, like something I could never avoid, like an inevitable sickness.

I had another dream about you last night. I was kissing you. In the back of your car, where we always are. You were cupping my face and curing me everywhere. Why?

We are sitting in the audience of a West End show in London.

It’s intermission, though, and I’m looking into your eyes like shimmering dusk, and I want.