୭ৎ Bunii ୭ৎ

And Also I Just Might Still Love Her. But That’s Unrelated. I Think.

I. That spiral, downward and upwards. When I get around to the stage of not thinking about you, feeling for you. And then the twitch in the corner of my eye sets me off, and the spiral sets off again. Healing; but not. It’s a storm and everything but, really. The thunder strikes. It hangs in the air. The clouds seem heavy, up there. If you blinked, you could’ve almost missed the downpour. The air is dry again. The clouds stay looming. But what I’ve found is, if I stare at the ground long enough, I forget they’re there. Maybe they are. Maybe they’re not. I wouldn’t know. Right now I’m looking at the ground. 

II. I’m walking with you, and this time it isn’t a dream. Is it? I don’t have to pinch myself, the awkwardness hanging in the air is too evident to be fake. I would’ve at least made us have a row, if this was going to be some climactic dream scene. It’s not. I’ve decided on that. We’re having some meaningless conversation about accents. I suppose we’ll never bring it up, not now, possibly never. I like this conversation. I’m tugging my dog towards me, she was supposed to be my anchor but the ship's too far from the shore. Is that how it works? I still don’t know. More comfort will establish itself, and we’re friends, after all. 

We’re friends; is the mantra I’m repeating to myself as you smile at me a bit too long for my ever present yet subtle queasiness at your presence. We’re friends now. You’re looking at my lips. Is this part a dream? Pinching myself would look stupid. I settle on smiling at you and looking away. I tell you that I must hear your American accent. Never! You squeal. I’m teasing. I tug my dog away and continue walking. At least now my hands are at my side. I like this conversation. I have a lot more to say, though.

III. You’re still sad. It isn’t linear, I know. But I actually don’t know. Much of anything. I say I’ll always be there for you, that I want to understand because I do want to understand. I’m punching love into my texts, furtively and with purpose. You answer with 4 letter words and fatigue. I grip my phone so hard it hurts, throw it aside. Peek at the screen again to see if you have anything more to say. Any way I can help. Have helped. Why would this be about me? I scoff at myself, then stare at the pixels flashing black “delivered” so long I might go blind. Would that help? I don’t think so. I put my phone down again. I don’t really know where to put it, these days. My love, I mean. I have too much of it and not in the way you can receive. That’s not new. My phone dings; “yeah.” I sigh. I guess I’ll just check your Pinterest boards again.

IV. This is the last point. A whopping 8 stages. 9? I don’t know. 

How long does the love left unspent from grief turn to smoke driving me mad? My lungs are clogged; I love. You aren’t even in this frame; I’m loving the border. I’m choking, and unlike the aforementioned dreams, you aren’t here to catch me when I fall. I’m not there for you either. I try to. Will you let me? This is stupid. You can’t. I’m trying to will with my mind; will hard enough that you won’t. Fall. Please don’t. Even less; jump. I’d jump right after you. I suppose the last stage of grief is my leap and all of this poetry. If you can even call this that. You won’t read this. But maybe the universe will. And maybe it might answer the next 11:11 wish I make for your mental well-being. I’m insane. You can hardly blame me. It’s hard to write with all this smoke clogged up in my lungs. Or was it speak? You couldn’t tell me.