just so.

on the day after i read you you a love letter (out loud)

i stayed in bed, thinking.

i stared at the ceiling,

trying to make sense of what i was feeling

and why i was blushing

and where i was going from here. 

what i’ve come up with is confusing, 

like all the rest of it. 

what i’ve come up with is this:

you feel like novocain, making my body clumsy and numb, 

forcing my gaze inward,

to the goings-on beneath my skin, the way water

runs from my tongue to my fingertips. 

my heart pumps blood in and out,

my nerves shoot signals through my appendages,

always sending a shiver when you lie down next to me.

there is no equation for us, no e equals mc squared to

pair with the place we hold, and

somehow that makes this all so much more

terrifying, and

comfortable, and

warm. 

i am curled up in this softness, this sleepiness,

just where we are.

just where we are, which is good enough

and far enough

and just enough

on the day after i read you a love letter (out loud) 

i came up with this:

where we are is just enough. 

there is a glow about her. 

she’s radiant, all thick hair and soft skin,bundled up in warm boots and a green scarf very early on monday morning. she comes through the door facing me, just as the conductor is telling me which trains i can transfer to at 42nd street. the list is long and i can’t take my eyes off of her, can’t tear myself away from the rosiness of her cheeks, the faint smile she wears on her lips.

an older man wearing a heavy gold ring offers her his seat. 

she accepts.

she pulls out a lipstick and a book, one i’ve heard of but have never read. she runs the color over her lips with one hand and without a mirror, and opens her book to the marked page. she soaks in the syllables, soaks in the precious silence of being alone.

her hands drift downward, where they come to rest out of habit on her swollen belly. i know she is counting down the minutes until she is a mother, reveling in her the ache of her fingers, so swollen she wears her wedding ring around her neck. i know she is counting down the minutes until her life changes, when she may no longer have time to ride the subway and read this book. she is close to the end and i can see her next literary endeavor peeking eagerly out of the corner of her purse. 

“the alchemist.” i know this one. 

suddenly, her eyes shoot up from the page, sparkling. she wedges the book between her legs as both of her hands press against her belly. she’s gleaming, her face full and bright and ecstatic.

she motions to a woman standing across the crowded car, one i hadn’t noticed before.

“caroline!” she gasps, “she’s kicking! she just kicked!”

somehow, seamlessly, the crowd parts for this woman, who, dropping everything in her haste, kneels down and presses her face to her partner’s abdomen. 

the rest of us hold our breath.

“oh,” says caroline, after a long moment, “oh, i can feel her.”

she lifts her face upward, and they are kissing and crying and people are coming and going and the book, forgotten, falls silently to the floor.  

every little thing i do.

here’s that thing again, that achy obnoxious beautiful thing that nips at my ankles and runs its hands through my hair. 

“him,” it says. “you’re thinking about him again.”

i know i am, terrible little voice, there’s really no need to rub it in. it’s amazing how much space is taken up by the figurative you. what did i do with all of my time before you came around? not much, apparently, because i cannot go two steps without that little voice nagging at me, pulling on my earlobes, trying to capture my attention. 

this feels so juvenile and silly. i catch myself getting frustrated and swoony almost simultaneously as i try to navigate these murky waters. there is no map to follow, there are no one’s footsteps to guide me. we’re paving the road as we walk on it, two writers and a blank page. 

i cleaned my entire apartment today. got down on my knees and scrubbed the floor and everything, in an effort to remember what it was like to be focused on something that is not you. cleaning is not the best distraction, it turns out, because this post is a direct result of my trying to force my attention elsewhere. this song, that joke, oh my god remember the time we (insert crazy and wonderful thing here)… 

it’s a terrible affliction, and yet is somehow so cozy and comfortable. i have you in my head as i lip sync into the mirror while applying that red lipstick you love, as i brush my teeth and pay my bills.

“you must be exhausted,” said the lame guy at a bar a few weeks ago while drunkenly lurching in my general direction. “oh yeah? why’s that?” i asked, unimpressed.

“because, “ he slurred, “you’ve been running around in my head all day.”

i have a few problems with this. first of all: i had never met this fine specimen before and therefore could not have possibly have been taking up residence in his thoughts. secondly, PULL IT TOGETHER, creepy bar guy. that line isn’t going to work on anyone, primarily because of who you are, but also, notably, because it doesn’t make sense. 

unfortunately for all us, creepy bar guy may have been onto something, though, because although i am loathe to admit it, the sentiment holds. you, sweet and figurative, must be exhausted. you must be exhausted, you gorgeous foolish man, because you’ve been running around in my head all day.

when we get there, i will tell you.
when we get there, i will let you know
i see you splashing and
spitting and
holding on,
wet and
victorious with every breath,
treading water and
waiting for the sun to come.

saline and salt water fold together,
threatening,
reminding you how easy it would be
to drown

one breath, then another
and your head screams
sink
but your heart begs
swim,
and in an instant, your limbs are in motion
the strokes long and
broad and
beautiful.

when we get there, i will tell you
safe and dry, surrounded and
simple and
quiet and
home.