april 5, 2004 - 17:19 - should probably stay off the motorbike
clutch-shift-click
she didn't.
twist
faster
clutch-shift-click
she couldn't.
twist
faster
clutch-shift-click
she wouldn't.
twist
faster
clutch-shift-click
she would.
shift
faster
clutch-shift-click
she could.
twist
faster
clutch-shift-click
she did.
twist
faster
april 3, 2004 - 10:52
the mood swings are too much.
on the pillow, i'm desperate to leave.
at the door, i'm desperate for her touch.
it comes like waves.
she is a drug.
april 3, 2004 - 04:10 - give me back my dreams
give me back my dreams
i've been counting these sheep
since i can't remember when
give me back my sleep
i'll be dreaming of you
till i wake up crying again
i have lain awake
through the longest hours
wondering whether to cry or scream
you can take my heart
it was always yours
but give me back my dreams.
- the 6ths
april 2, 2004 - 23:06 - oscillating wildly
standing on the doorstep, you were leaving to go out. we stand
in the silent conclusion of a promising conversation;
perhaps even better than i would have ever dared speculate.
for brief moments, i somehow forget all of this, and can
almost imagine us surviving.
then, just as quickly, i imagine a van with steamy windows.
i pour my water glass on your head. 'bad kitty,' i say.
we laugh.
april 2, 2004 - 19:13 - wash your hands. lávese las manos
she asked me this morning not to give up on us. she said we
had too much history to throw away, that it couldn't be ignored.
that seven years had to account for something, right?
i pointed out that it was her, not me, that gave up.
the stupid, frustrating, terribly obvious thing is, i still love her.
i honestly can't imagine life without her. absolutely every
decision i've made in the last two years, (and a good many of the
last seven), has been weighted around us. each step, an
integral point in the function that mapped a path from the day we
met towards the dream we shared together.
after seven years, she is a part of everything that i am today.
but how can we restart? i will never love her
quite the same. i simply can not. i will never
be as blind or as sophmorically unassuming as i once was.
my love will never be so completely entrusted as before.
she could never be happy with someone who always questions
why she's late; with this experience, some part
of me will always be wondering why she's late.
sure, we might save us, but my dream of us is gone forever.
and if we can't love like that, what's the point? after touching
such great heights, wouldn't anything lesser be fundamentally
unfulfilling by comparison?
but i look at her, puffy red eyes. we are crying together.
we are sleepless together. we are sick to our stomachs,
and unhungry together. and in a perverse way, it kinda feels
like we are a team again.
but how can we restart? i am an overtly sensitive fool,
with a terrible weakness for attaching meaning to inanimate objects.
her deceit went on for so long, for too long, and now so many
things in our lives are tainted. talismans of bad memories
that clutter our home, our garage, our lives.
| ruined |
the truck i helped her to buy. the truck they
used to get away. the truck i will never ride in again. |
| ruined |
the lillies. our lillies. the only flowers
we ever gave each other. the flowers delivered on the
morning she woke up in his arms. |
| ruined |
valentine's day. a stupid, commercial holiday that
should not mean anything in and of itself, yet does. the
day he held her, and i did not.
|
| ruined |
the engagement scooter. long intended to be my
promise. the process had started; i had found the motive,
the painter, and a friend's basement to build it in. |
| ruined |
her place of work. i cannot go there. i do not
trust my temper. i do not trust myself around him. |
| ruined |
her circle of friends. he is part of them.
i can not join them in any event, he might be there.
i do not trust my temper. i do not trust myself
around him. |
| ruined |
our home. i imagine him by my fire, on my sofa,
watching my movies. drinking my brandy. |
| ruined |
her arms. they are not as pure, as wholesome,
as unquestionably mine as they once were. |
| ruined |
my house buying plans. they were all about
finding a space for us. a single, solitary place
in this world to be all ours. |
| ruined |
citrus listerine. i will always remember it
placed where it should not be. placed where he left it. |
| ruined |
her new glasses. her red pants. her new shirt,
skirts. all items purchased whilst on her "high;" (damn,
she looked good in them). all items undeniably touched by him,
possibly removed by him. |
| ruined |
t-faz on 23rd. where she sometimes went to be "alone."
where she went to be with him. |
| ruined |
my absolute trust in her. |
| ruined |
the question. for the last two months, i had been
scheming, planning, plotting: time spent working to find a clever,
unforgettably romantic way to ask her the ultimate question.
the very same two months she played this game. |
| ruined |
me. my heart. my soul. i feel a part
of me has died inside. melted, then scared over.
the only me available for a recovered relationship
would be resonant deprecated echo of my former self. |
there are too many shadows. there are too many ghosts.
there is no mappable path from here back to our dreams.
it is too much.
april 2, 2004 - 03:33 - heartless bitch, still can't sleep
what did he give to you that i didn't?
was it his chicken-bone body? the fact he still lived with his dad?
(did he have to sneak you through the back door?) his cheesy 70's
van? (damn, that is so cliche.)
did you like running your fingers over his shaved head? was he a
better kisser than me? did he make you feel more beautiful than i
did? more dangerous?
what did he give to you that i couldn't?
april 2, 2004 - 01:10 - no user servicable parts inside
you are a beautiful girl.
you are a fucking disaster.
you are messy, scatter brained, and terrible with finances.
you are not easy to love.
you crave attention.
you like to flirt.
you cannot be crowded, nor ignored.
you are not easy to love.
you said you needed space, i gave it to you.
you said you wanted to go out, i got dressed, brushed my hair.
you said you needed to get away, i offered to pay for the trip.
i thought i was pretty good at loving you. i tolerated
things that shocked even your close friends. i tolerated them
without even thinking it weird. after seven years, i
really knew you. (i thought i knew you.)
i would have given you everything i had, i would have stolen what
i did not; i would have done all of this, if you had just asked for it.
why didn't you ask for it?
you are not easy to love.
april 1, 2004 - 13:18 - you were always brilliant in the morning
that morning, the one you woke up in his arms?
that morning, i woke up with you in my head. it was 4am MST,
and an hour before my alarm was set to go off. i was so
excited to come home, i was so excited to get back to you.
i showered, dressed, packed my bags. i sat in
the dark and thought of you and waited and waited
for my ride to leave.
(why haven't we left yet? we have 2000 miles to cover; time
to go, time to go!)
that morning i realized—i mean, really truly realized—that
you were the one i wanted to be with for the rest of my life.
it was that morning. the one you woke up in his arms.
april 1, 2004 - 05:23 - april's fool
she says it was someone else, acting out. that it wasn't really her.
and in a way, i honestly have to believe her. i don't
consider myself foolish enough to love someone who could have been this cold.
this heartless. and for this long.
.........
i have an admitted flair for dark speculation, a personality trait
prescribed to the point of ridicule by many of my friends. in
my head, if somebody's late, it is not accountable to anything
ordinary, like misplaced keys, or unusually sluggish traffic.
instead, their truancy is surely due to a tragic pile-up, replete with
broken fenders and shattered limbs. i can close my eyes and see
the emergency lights refracting through the spiderweb of safety glass,
the half-consumed soda splashed sticky on the dash, the puddles of
iridescent radiator coolant.
in my head, the reason that they are not calling is because they are on a
oxygen, in an ambulance, screaching across town.
.........
how then, does one with such a demonstratively macabre imagination,
a card carrying pessimist, how do they miss all of these KICK-YOU-IN-THE-FUCKING-FACE class of obvious signs?
take the unfamiliar number¹ in the phone bill.
weeks ago, i hilighted a series of strange repetitive entries in our
monthly statement, honestly believing someone had cloned her phone.
it is only with the knowledge of now do i realize that each call
was made just minutes after my own phone number was logged. cloned
number, my ass.
she hung up with me, and she called him.
the concept was so improbable to me, so fucking far off the chart of possible
causes, that i couldn't even begin to imagine it. not even when
considered in summation with all of the other signs. not even
then.
.........
to be fair, this all (reportedly) started with a relatively innocent
transgression on a night when i had the poor form to be out of town.
i can believe this; i understand the solitude. i understand
the feeling of incompletion, the lying lonely, the allure of someone's
warmth. i have felt it—i probably even felt it that
night—i have felt it, but i have never succumbed.
such a trespass of the skin, i can understand, i can forgive.
the shock. the horror. the morning-after realization
that you have just gambled seven years of companionship for an
instant of gratification. the corresponding desire not to
reveal your deed to a loved one for fear of the obviously painful
ramifications.
such a trespass of the mind, i can understand, i can forgive.
it is to have done this, and to have continued doing this, even
after my return that i simply cannot fathom, much less understand.
how did it feel to wake up in his arms, leave for work,
and find flowers from me? how did it feel to call him,
invite him over, just moments after whispering your love to me?
how did it feel to stay late at work, making out with him,
then come home to my arms, my long-since-cold dinner of your
favorite pasta? ( i hate that pasta. i only cook it for you.)
this is a trespass of the heart. this i cannot understand,
and i can never forgive.
..........
i am not blind, i saw all of the signs: yesterday, i began
combing my memory, writing them down, trying to put the pieces
together. i currently have a list of 37 discrete events,
each of them unique, damning, obvious.
i saw all of these things, yet i still did not put it together.
it was not because i was stupid, or easily duped—even
the avowed pessimist inside me could not of imagined this level of
deceit—it is because i trusted you. i trusted you
more than i have ever allowed myself to trust anyone before.
i trusted you more than i will ever trust anyone again.
..........
she says it was someone else, acting out. that it wasn't really her.
and in a way, i honestly have to believe her. i don't
consider myself foolish enough to love someone who could have been
this cold. this heartless. and for this long.
¹his number, by
the way, is: XXX-XXX-XXXX. this is provided in the off hand event
that you wanted someone to try to sell urinal biscuits, inflatable dates,
or shag carpet kits suitable for ford vans. please be sure to
select as inconvenient time as possible.
edit: [april 2, 2004 - 23:00] i have decided to remove his number.
even though posting it here with an open invitation for abuse is far
less rude than pummelling him with a tire iron, (which i continue to
fantasize about), it's decidedly lower than i can bring myself to stoop.
april 1, 2004 - 02:33 - this is jack's broken heart
this is jack, reclining in the bathroom in blue jeans and a t-shirt.
this is jack's blood, pooling red and sticky on white linoleum,
coagulating where it has fallen from a dozen cuts that he cannot feel.
these shimmery bits are shards of bathroom fixtures, stupidly
shattered by jack's heartbroken flailing. —see how they cut sharp,
refractory angles against the darkening red, simultaneoulsy
both delicate and terrifying?
this is jack: bleeding, crumpled, crying; right where she put him.
( more )
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