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memory is a half empty glass of could have beens, should have beens, not anymores; everything leaks out the slightest cracks in the bottom
slowly
     slowly
before you realize there is nothing substantial left and there's just a bunch of atmosphere in there and nothing to quench you or warm you, or even spin you into drunk illusions of a life you don't have.
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i heard　 your voice over the waves of melodies i chose, knowing your ghost would float in, wrap itself around my heart like a tourniquet and wring me out. i curled into sheets that never knew your body, against walls that never echoed your whispers, and pulled at the splitting ends of my hair - the only things that held the memory of your touch.
dear you,
if you are like me, you are confused. you feel crammed into life like a sardine, and somehow everybody seems to know the way they're going but you, and even when you try to follow, even when you grasp the hems of everyone in front of you, even when you hold on for dear life, you end up half drowned, pulling yourself up on the shore only to follow a new crowd back into the water again. if you are like me, you're sure there is a destination, but you can't get there. it hovers like a mirage over all of the mess you're digging through, and you think, if i could only stand on that ground, i would be better, wiser, happier. if you are like me, you feel guilty and weak for that - you don't understand why you can't be happy where you are. why you follow the rules, and follow the maps, and follow the other happy people but still feel so empty, trapped, lost and alone.Â
if you are like me, you think that everyone's opinion of you matters - you think you have to be somebody to everybody, and you feel that everybody wants something different, and you feel that you don't know how to be wanted and want yourself at the same time. you aren't really sure what you want for yourself at all, but you feel like you have to pretend you are. you think you are old enough now that you should have some answers. you think you sound stupid and juvenile and useless when you admit what you don't know, and you feel all those things even more when you pretend to know and it turns out you don't have the faintest clue.
if you are like me, you don't know what you're talking about, so in this moment, right here, right now, you know exactly what i'm talking about.
if you are like me, i hope that whoever taught you that happiness is beyond you is far away from you now. i hope that the crowds will fan out around you, and give you a space among them to dance. i hope you forget there are such things as answers. i hope you realize that nobody can make you take the road if you want to cut through the grass.Â
i hope you love other people, but never live for them.Â
if you are like me, i hope you can let old hurts wash out to the tide you used to tread in, i hope you let go your fears of drowning and falling and hurting, i hope you swim and run and hold on to other people, but i hope you do it because it feels right, not because you feel like you have to get somewhere.
if you are like me, i hope you know it's ok, and i hope nobody ever tells you anything else.
this boy i hardly knew but for a name, but for a public opinion, but for the brief look that crossed his face when he closed his eyes to become someone else, drove me around sometimes. he and i were quiet most of the time. he raced the asphalt, the only time he felt close to winning: it fell behind him like the sky bleeds into dark after the sun and i looked the other way, eyes to the hills burgeoning up and sprouting wild flowers. i thought if we knew what to say, if we had words to make the space between us feel less than dead
we could stop,
abandon the pavement for a peak.
i wanted to be an artist because i wanted to be like you, because i thought if i couldn't be a wandering spirit that could step into your feet, disappear against your frame like your very own shadow, then maybe i could be a trapped spirit trying to create, a visionary who could fashion myself into a version of you still.
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You said to let you know when I have troubles, but I do not want to overflow your stream with my downpour, ruin the flowers that line your softly babbling brook. You are contained and peaceful and I am a typhoon and I want to be like you but I can't evaporate fast enough to keep myself going but never going too far. You said to let you know when I have troubles, but I am troubled by the having of troubles, troubled by your lack of troubles, troubled by my inability to untrouble myself. You said to let you know, but my troubles will only trouble you, and then we both drown.
your face is already slipping into the grain of memory, flattening and falling into shadow. the texture of your callouses evades my finger tips and though i held my nose to your neck to capture your scent, i don't know it anymore.
come back.
i do not know what any of the men i have ever kissed do with their little moments. don't know now the rhythm of their breathing or the how the flaked skin of their lips would taste in my mouth. i don't know the texture of the surfaces they tap their fingers on, or if there is a shock beneath their feet in the mornings. not where they appear from, or leave to, how they manage their pocket change or what melodies buzz beneath their breath when they think they are alone. what cigarettes they smoke - when they do, if they do; how many bottles of spirits line their refrigerators - which could be dingy or spotless, large, black, small, white. i do not know where their mouths have been, what air has passed in and out of them like ocean tides, what salt and sugar and from where have slid over the gates of their teeth and tickled their tongues. i do not know all the words that have flooded out or scraped across their lips, the smiles that have cracked their faces wide like eggs, or the grimaces which have stretched their cheeks into gnarled gargoyle faces. i do not know those mouths now, or the brains that send neurons to move them, or the hearts and bodies that once pushed those lips to mine.
