Sunday, November 27, 2016

November 26

In French, they don't say "I miss you". They say, "tu me manques." It more directly translates to "you are missing from me". It's an often romanticized translation. I know I told it to you once in one of my many proclamations of devotion.  And here it is, true. You are missing from me. Like a severed limb.  Nothing but a gnarled stump now, tender pink flesh grown over with brand new, baby-pink skin and sinewy white scar tissue. And I'll wear you like this forever now. The public reminder of what didn't kill me. You'll stuff yourself with empty women and none of them will taste like the bite you took of me.  And I'll sit at my dining table with my grandkids asking me to pull back my sleeves and tell them about the monster who left those marks. And I'll smile at the missing pieces, knowing you're still hungry, and I'm still alive.  Romantic, huh, the way you're missing from me?

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

November 9, 2016

I still remember the crack in the windshield like it was an omen of everything that came after. It wasn't. A hairline fracture, at first so small that I didn't see it until after I drove my brand-new used car off the lot. It was a good car. I was proud of it. I was diligent with stopping to clean it and vacuum it out every weekend, change the oil every 3000 miles. I was invested in that car. On two different occasions, I stopped at a roadside glass repair and ask them if they could fix that crack in the windshield. On two different occasions, I was told that it had already been repaired. "See that little round spot in the middle? That's where they drilled it. It's been repaired." But it was growing. It was growing in the way I was constantly questioning whether it was in my head or in reality. Fractionally, infinitesimally, but it was growing. And so I kept injecting the glue that was supposed to make the cracking stop. But when the whites of my eyes met his, just at the moment of impact, The impact that totaled my car, and my knee, and not long after, my sense of idealism, I wasn't thinking about the crack in the windshield at all.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

November 3, 2016

It's dangerous to dream in black and white
When it's my fingers
itching for handfuls of your hair
The scratch of your silvering scruff
against the nape of my neck
The goosebumps that raise
like the curve of my spine
in their effort to meet your lips
The lazy arch of my eyebrow
when I smile at you in the afterglow
Funny how we mourn only until
we are rewarded for letting go
And now I languish in the sound
Of so many foreign tongues
And the only retribution I need
Is your fast talk, slow grin
and the sunrise