If nothing else, this day is one more to fade your scars.
personal
i’m yours
“I’m yours.” That’s what she wanted to say to him. I have been ever since we sat and spoke together. Ever since we moved past hello’s and harmless flirtation.
That first real conversation that was slightly deeper than superficial, when I caught a casual glimpse at the depth of you, the beauty of your spirit, the kindness trapped behind weary eyes. The strength earned from being a survivor. I was yours just then.
But I cannot say it. I cannot utter those two words. I would be condemned to you, you with too many monsters to take on love. Too many ghosts haunting you, too many burdens to bear. You can barely keep your head above water. The weight of this might sink you all together.
the human heart
“The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world” ~Conrad
Her heart felt vast in an uncomfortable kind of way. It felt vast in an empty, abandoned warehouse kind of way. In a broken down, left behind, discarded, scattered, unkempt, desolate kind of way.
An emptiness that can only come from something that was once filled with life. The most notable kind of emptiness. Where something once had been. Where love once had been.
The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. And it is vast enough to contain nothing at all.
So much nothing, there is not even room for anything else.
every girl has a weakness
I’m a sucker for boys with dark eyes. Like fresh-brewed shots of espresso. Eyes with depth. Eyes that could tell you stories. That wear the weight of all the things they’ve seen. Eyes that say more than words and voices ever could. The first time you look into them, all you see is a warning, but you can’t look away. Those soulful, woeful, endless eyes.
One wink, and all I can hope to do is surrender.
a toast to failed plans
On that particular New Years Eve, they dressed up in pressed collars and stiletto heels and waited in line in the cobblestone streets to get inside. But the line did not move as the clock ticked on toward midnight. So they abandoned their plan, grabbed a frozen pizza and a bottle of champagne and headed back to the apartment.
They spent the rest of the night sitting on the carpet in front of the television, sipping bubbles, holding hands and watching the East Coast celebrate from Nashville to New York.
She knew then, with absolute certainty, it was going to be a good year.
revelation
All the things that used to scare me (like broccoli and old people and elevator conversations and mistakes and being alone) don’t anymore.
I think this means I’m a grown up.
everything to me
I used to believe that one person could be my world, my everything. That my whole existence could be perfectly wrapped around someone else. I used to believe this was an acceptable way of thinking. Healthy. Normal. Noble, even.
It was only when I moved away and started anew and went down a path completely alone that I realized how wrong I was.
I had spent far, far, far too long with someone, believing he was everything. When he or I or both of us faltered and our relationship winced and buckled, we held on. Clinging desperately to the lackluster, so afraid to lose it all. Afraid to be left with nothing.
How unfair it is to allow someone else, anyone else to be everything. When in fact, we are our own everything. We exist completely on our own – our beings fully separated from anyone else. With our own thoughts and feelings and breaths and dreams. Our own ambitions and hopes and desires.
I’m glad I chose to move away. Went down this unknown path alone. I’m glad I got far enough away from you to realize you were not my everything. And we were not anything at all.
Just two scared kids, clinging to the lackluster. No idea how to let go.
new journal
There are so many things to consider when selecting a new journal. The look of the cover. The number of pages. The feel of the paper. The distance between the lines. And whether or not they call to you to write in them.
But most importantly, the weight of each individual page. Are they substantial enough to hold all the words that will inevitably come, looking for a place to stay?
what happens next
That’s what I’m scared of. What happens next.
After infatuation and butterflies and obsession and absolute perfection. After intimacy and closeness and comfort and trust. After white dresses and first dances and honeymoon suites. After nesting and settling down and routines and consistency.
I’m scared of what happens next after that.
When all the things you once loved slowly start to wear you down. And you barely speak at all. Where you’re suddenly in a place of knowing one another completely and not knowing each other at all.
And the walls begin to build around you, between you, on top of you. Until you feel so trapped, it’s almost impossible to breathe.
Because you know, what happens after that. What’s coming next. We don’t even know where else to go anymore. The end is the only destination we have for this journey. And so our butterflies turn to moths, and float onward toward the end’s sullen glow.
Then we’ll shed the tears and sign the papers and be cordial and alone.
Maybe if I never do the ring or the dress or the veil or the dance, maybe then we’ll never get to what’s next. And we can stay as we are forever.
That would be just fine with me.
(Image source: High on Skinny on Tumblr)
the gift of words
Sometimes I’m told I am gifted with words. But I see them coming together in sentences and structures and jargon and poems and prose and think – No, no no. It’s the words that are gifted.
They are the music. I cannot help but sing along.
writeamuck 