#fleurishes

you don’t know the good, gentle things we exchange in the dark

If you are thinking of him, think of this: how he never returned your phone calls, the fact that neither of you liked the same music, how you would fight over stupid, inconsequential things. That he never introduced you to his mother, that you were sure she didn’t even know your name. Think of how there were nights that led into days where he didn’t touch you. Think of how many times he disappeared. Think about all the rot you had to scrape out of yourself when you finally decided that it wasn’t going to work. Do not think of those rare little gems you keep in the back of your mind for the game of comparison that you play whenever you meet someone new. Do not think about his mouth, or his laugh or the colour of his knees. Do not think about his sleepy weight in bed or the time he made you swear that you’d never love anyone else as much or as intensely or as fiercely, because you are still coming home to sheets that smell like him. You are so much better than this. Do not think of him because he is not thinking about you.

I think a lot about that whale who sings in a pitch that no other whales can understand. Maybe they’re just too tired to sing back, or maybe they know the truth: that love is an onslaught, that it smashes into you like an iceberg and it doesn’t matter if you’re built like a ship—you’ll go down anyway, bow first, break in half like the Titanic and crash into the ocean floor, miles apart. You’ll rust long before you’re able to pull yourself back together again and it will take years for future lovers to find your exact coordinates and bring what’s left up to the surface, to the sun.

The sleeping, the eating, the grocery shopping, the cleaning, the awake, the bathing, the sex, the running, the deep sharp tug in the belly of it, the hellos, the goodbyes, the edge of the blade, the kisses, the bitter end, the better beginning, the constant phone calls, the endless voice mails, the letters you wrote when you pretended to be a writer, the underside of your arms when you told me to stay, the way that even the backs of your knees blushed when we whispered secrets behind cupped palms. The innocence, the fresh sting of it, the unknowing and then the brutal knowing of it all, the way we fell apart and then found our way back. The promise, the sin, the breaking. The leaving. The going. The always. The never. The yes. The sweetest thing you ever said. The craving. The digging. The finding."

They’ve been together since the summer and it shows: the electricity in the car when I climb in, how the baby hairs on my neck stand up at attention like they know they’re in the presence of something real and important. Something that needs to be acknowledged. We carry on our conversation like nothing is out of the ordinary, talk about things that don’t really matter to the world at large but that are still vastly important to us. I like to see how far they’ve both come with their relationship, hands locking together out of instinct over the cup holders, the reassurance of skin, shifting their bodies to favour each other, the amount of love blowing in from the vents. I am happy there in the back seat, wind in my hair, the highway stretching out before us, their love a sunroof, a tangerine I can sink my teeth into, hold delicately in my mouth, smile and laugh around, all flesh and lung. After they drop me off at home, I come into my bedroom and lay down and watch the light shift and change on the walls. Swallow.

Learn how to be lonely. Learn what it’s like to know that you are coming home to yourself night after night- that empty is just another word for open.

I think it rains here just so the city can touch your collarbone.