I noticed that I have wrinkles creeping up on my seemingly-young and spry face. You’d think I would be upset, but I was happy to see them skirting the outline my lips instead of engraving my forehead. I added a few more seconds to those lines after my morning observation.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat.
n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.
I want to tell you how much you are.
Thinking about reading this at a poetry slam… thoughts?
EVAPORATED AROUND YOU AND US I HOVER,
LINGERING AND LONGING FOR A GAP,
WHERE I CAN DRIFT MY THROBBING EXUBERANCE
INTO OUR EXISTENCE.
EAGERLY YOU SUBMIT TO A RHYTHM
OTHER THAN YOUR OWN.
YOU RIPPLE AND CURL
TO THE BECKON OF ANOTHER.
I CONDENSE ON YOUR MOUTH AND LAY AND PLAY
IN THE CURVES OF YOUR LIPS.
I FILL EACH DIP, CONDITIONING YOUR SKIN AND THRUSTING YOU INTO A NEW PULSE.
I AWAKEN YOUR SENSE AND VIGOROUS PAIN.
YOU QUIVER AT THE SIGHT OF IT.
MY ANATOMY SWELLS OUT FROM UNDER YOU, CREATING CHAOTIC CANALS, FASHIONED OF MARROW AND SWIRLING BRUISED PLASMA.
STAINS OF PREVIOUS STRIFE REMAIN FLAWLESSLY TOXIC.
PATTERNS OF RIBS PRESS TO THE PRECIPICE.
PELVIS PUSHING AND COLLARBONE CLAWING TO THE MIRROR,
WHERE ONLY I CAN IDENTIFY YOU UNDER OUR
BURSTING FROM MY INNER SINEWS STRUGGLING TO STRING ME DOWN,
I GASP AND GRASP AT
THE CONTRASTING FANTASY AHEAD.
IT INLAYS ITSELF INTO MY ROUGH PALETTE.
ITS TASTE IS POTENT EVEN IN ITS ABSENCE.
OUR BODY RESPONDS IN VISCERAL CONTRACTIONS,
ATTEMPTING TO RID OURSELF OF THE REPULSIVE PAROXYSM.
YOU SHIVER AND SHAKE, HOPING TO HURDLE YOURSELF INTO TOMORROW.
REGRETFULLY, YOU REMAIN THERE.
INFUSED BY YOUR MALADY,
SOAKING IN YOUR CURRENT EXISTENCE,
AND NOT ABLE TO ESCAPE IT YET.
I’m trying desperately to read my book but every time he moves, even though my disgraceful sinus-infection-congested nose and cynical congested soul, I am intoxicated by the mix of his cologne (please tell me it’s his cologne and not some ridiculous and ungodly scent his body has produced on his own) and the coffee with milk (café au lait.. my choice drink) sitting in front of the papers he is scribbling on. I’m quite certain I don’t find him attractive. I rarely find people attractive. Or ever fall in love. Except for that stranger on the subway I so regretfully passed by. But I am in love with his scent. I could marry this scent in this moment. I hope to never forget it. So I write it down.
I fell in love last night. On the subway. It’s funny how in New York, you can pass so many people and yet when that one crucial person crosses your path, they stand out. I was terrified to look him in the eye. I really could only look at his worn leather boots and worn hands holding his torn book. He treats his books like I treat mine. Like a lover. Not something you cherish but something you get to know inside and out until there’s nothing else to learn about them. He kept smiling and looking up from his book as I read mine. I tried to read mine. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to read at midnight with a few glasses of wine in me.
Moments before I got off the train, our smiles met. I can’t really say our eyes met because I chicken-shitted out. I saw just the bottom half of his swirling blue eyes and I’m quite certain my heart fell out of my ass. That must be what love feels like.
We parted ways. And I could feel him looking my way. As I turned around, he was gone. I lost my chance. Never again will I lose that chance. I will forever regret that. The rest of the night my heart pounded like the first time I looked down a mountain I was about to hurl myself down on skis. And I let it slip away. Never again.
I haven’t posted in a while, even though I have been writing. So heads up, I’m going to add a few things. If anyone cares…
Moving and traveling, I find this to be particularly true.
"…one feels freer speaking to a stranger than to people one knows. Why is that?"
I shrugged. “Probably because a stranger sees us the way we are, not as he wishes to think we are.”
Shadow of the Wind
Someone once said that the moment you stop to think about whether you love someone, you’ve already stopped loving that person forever.
Perhaps for that very reason, I adored her all the more, because of the eternal human stupidity of pursuing those who hurt us the most.
Heylo from New York