Skin and Bones.

It seems the square of foam you sleep on at night is equivalent to the amount of time you wish to dedicate to mediocrity.
I can't say I blame you.
We talked about black and white, and grey and green.
I could revel in the disappointment of those far gone; you could step ahead and look for a fresh opportunity or two.

It's strange to me that I find the strangest places to be extensions of my own home.
But in those few hours on the couch and sprawled across the floor-I knew myself.
I didn't even have to know you.
Cobwebs and outdated patters; silence at all the wrong times; two people with degrees and diplomas and As and Bs--and not a single conclusion, not even a bit of understanding as to what the hell we were supposed to do with life.

I have difficulty explaining why I act in the ways my mind and heart both despise.
Tears will well up, every time, as I explain them; the past; all of the reasons there is so much more to worry about.
They will fall down my cheeks as I selfishly admit the words are all for myself, and more often than not, useless to everyone else.
But what else do I have?

Unfortunately, I judge too quickly.
More fortunately, I don't ever fully make up my mind.
Something about you, about that night-changed me.
Not completely, and not noticeably, but innately, I suppose.

You asked for nothing more than my skin and bones.
And a soothing voice.
And an open heart.

All of which I've had before; all of which I've given; and most of which has been left out on the sidewalk in the pouring rain when things come crashing down.
But the drive home convinced me to let go.
Of something.
Sometime.

And to give, even when everything I have is soggy and less than perfect.
I could just give myself, you said.

Do you really think that one day, that will be enough?

Cobwebs.

You doused the pages in your old cologne.
I wish I could rid myself of any memories inspired by your perfumed words.
And yet, everything came rushing back.

Everything but the need I used to feel for you.

Maybe the answers I'm looking for are written in between the lines.
Supposedly, we, as humans, have this heightened ability to learn a lesson from every experience.
Sometimes, the lesson is that we've made a mistake.
Other times, the lesson is that we are weaker than we expected.
This time, the lesson was that I never really felt safe with you.

And for all of the lonely nights I've spent since then; all of the tears; all of the unresponsive tugs on my pillow; the indentations that have disappeared because you no longer sleep on that side of the bed; the dreams, the nightmares, the real-life experiences I attend with my eyes closed; through all of that, none of your letters are enough.

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of someone like you. Someone who would write me notes of love and endearment; that would comfort me in his loss, more than he would comfort himself.

Among other things, this Prince Charming could spell.
You lack such a quality.

And that's always bothered me.

I could be righteous and proclaim that I ended it with you, because of what you said about the people that mean most to my life and my happiness.

Or I could be realistic, and tell the world I tried to fight the fact that YOU were ceasing any adventures with my future self, because I can eat a Big Mac faster than your skinny ass.

"You taught me that beauty was more than skin deep."

Well, good friend, you taught me that despite my deepest wish; my innermost desire for there to be good in all people; some are just fucking idiots.

I feel crass.
And rude.

But you've ruined those lively cells in my brain that had confidence in everything I used to be.
You've become a permanent scar on days like this; ones where I don't exactly feel like myself.
Whatever that means.

In any case, you've left an imprint.
One I am most certainly not thankful for.
You taught me, more than anyone, just how many people cannot be trusted in this world.

And the truth is: you'll never come back from that.

Leave the letters in their envelopes.
Cap your bottle of cologne.
Pry your tires off my driveway, and your thumbprints from my heart.
Click your pen shut, and get a dictionary.

I'll let the cobwebs cover my mailbox again.
The spider I named Henry is more comfort to my heart than you.

Seeding.

I haven't taken a moments time to sit down and figure out exactly what I was thinking the night we met. The bar lights were dim. And you had a smile-the kind Fitzgerald dreamed of for Daisy. And it caught my eye.

It's almost amazing how I couldn't help but fall back into place, with yet another face. The expectations of kisses and arms around shoulders were exceeded; and I found myself short of breath. I confessed more in the beginning than I would in the end-the reverse of my typical life cycle.

Did I emerge from the larvae too soon? Amidst the afterthoughts and hind-sights and endless attempts to rid the "what-if's" from my mind, I arrive back at the notion that I wasn't going to leave that shady bar without you.

The phone numbers. The messages. The cards. The letters. They link us, but they do nothing to bind us when compared to the insatiable need I felt that night.

To have you in my life.
To hold your hand.
To understand why fate dropped me into corners of mildew and hands with x's.

I could ask God why things work the way they do; why life is never as simple as it seems when in the first three minutes of knowing someone.
I could ask Him why in a few months, or years, I have this seeding feeling this same speech will be rehearsed.
These fingers will dash across the keys, and then smear the pages in the notebook, continually documenting all of the overwhelming questions I don't have answers for.

I suppose the good news is, you don't need my help.

I feel like I should fucking blame myself.

Welcome Home.

I refuse to be denied the beauty of a voice. Though my true feelings typically scramble out in some sort of hieroglyphic scratch or automated key-prints-my voice begs for use in empowerment and passion.

I told you the truth.

It would be easy for me to say I haven't been lying to myself, or more literally, burying YOU in multiple late nights of drinking and discussion. It would be prudent and socially beneficial to pine in your loss-but I just kept telling myself there was more to this world.

Somehow society understood that, too.

And by society,I mean the amateur alcoholic I shared beautiful evenings and awkward daylight hours with. He thought it would all be okay, too.

That's a lie.
He was planning our downfall and self-sabotage from the moment I gave you up.
It's funny how some people finally get what they want-and are still unhappy.

It's funny how I'm not excluded from the generalization.

All the nights. All the phone calls-the yelling, the tears, the pleading, and the tiny kisses before which I promised each was the last.
You. Were. Right.

Does that help?

You were right all along. I did need you. I did love you.
I still do.

And now you can look at me and say it's all over.
That you're happy. And the truth is-

I'm afraid you're right.

These ramblings, when reflected upon, often look like the diary of some misfit teenager-searching for her clique in the high school cafeteria.

The great news is: I'm an adult.
Still rambling. Still searching for my spot in life-with you or on my own.
And the forecast has proclaimed these fits of hysteria are only bound to progress and expand with age and accumulating responsibility.

Better pack the umbrella today.
I'm not likely to dance in the rain.
Unless you're ready to listen to these droplets of confession.
And understand their beauty.

Ting. Ting. Ting.
On the window.

It won't be enough to drown out my voice.
You can race the streams of Heaven water down the glass.
They'll all end up on the ground.

And I will too.
I can only hope one of us will perpetuate a further forecast.

And chances are slim.
Tomorrow looks cloudy...

Accelerate.

Lost. Heart.

I find myself lying awake at night. I could be lonely. Or I could just be alone. Sometimes, when I think too much, I notice a difference.

It's comforting to know my thoughts have taken flight to new areas.
I didn't like when they were alone with you.

For whatever reason, however, you keep appearing in the words spreading across my screen like butter on my morning toast.
I see you, also, in the the journal pages I wish I could forget.

But there you are-every morning. Every day. You greet me as the sun does-reminding me that my life is different now than it was back then.


I don't want it back.

All the letters I wrote. All the speeches I promised to give. All those times I wish you would have listened without interrupting...I don't want them back.

I'll let them lie in the pages of every journal. Every poem. Every doodle on the back of my notebook. I'll let them lie there-and die there. Just as one day, you will die, too.

You always said forty was too old.
Does it scare you to know these words will last longer than your lifetime?
Does it frighten you to understand that the truth hasn't set me free-and it won't let you pass without a toll, either.

Some days, I'd like to toss my hands in the air. Send you to Hell. Cut your sweaters into tiny pieces with my kitchen scissors. Scream to an empty parking lot that knew the truth all along.

Other days, I treasure every word. Every lecture; every lesson; every whiskey-induced discussion you've probably forgotten and I've remembered too well.

And today, and maybe tomorrow, I want to remind you--You Were Wrong.

About me.
About life.
About love.
About intention, contention, reflection, condensation, and how long you should bake those quiches from Trader Joe's.

You were wrong about the wind-it breathes with more passion than you housed in every goodnight kiss.
You were wrong about the rain-it holds more hope than my heavy heart has for your settled life.
You were wrong about the drinks-they didn't make me prettier. They made you invincible. And vengeful.
You were wrong about my voice-the empty passenger seat in my car reminded me that silence is the strongest of all encouragement.

And now, when I drive down your street, I have other thoughts.

The road is bumpier than I remembered.
Your yard looks like shit.
I always liked your neighbors that argued.
I hate your bedside drawer-the incense always convinced me I belonged.
Your car isn't you.
And if I turn left a few streets down, adventure awaits.

Without you.

It's times like these that seem to define us-that sounds like something you would say.
I guess I should rephrase:
In my limited years of experience, time with you was beautiful. And the aftermath-was (and still occaisonally is) like one of those dreams where you beg for reality. And to this day-I regret nothing.

Not a damn thing.

Totality.

I left you. I left because the blinders fell aside and beauty modestly slid into my life.

It came with a price.

With beauty-subtle and refreshing streams of incense-came loneliness.
And fear-fear that in every second I was not keeping you at bay-you would forget who you are.

I wish I could say that the day has come where I am ready to let you fly-to decisively shuffle you out of the nest like a tiny blue jay.

To let you examine the world you forfeited in a lack of confidence and uncertainty-the same fears each of us faces while anticipating an outcome.

I wish I could say that I'm strong-that I have more than imprinted computer keys and smeared journal notes to save me.

Yet, my words, are all I have.

I could pretend, for my sake, that this independent state enlightens me-brings me to life.

I could also pretend, for your sake, that without your nonchalance and lid-outward glances I would forget how to breathe.

The truth is this: Because of you, I listen.

I listen to the beauty that surrounds-to the sorrows and suffering. Because of you I listen to the corner occupants of the cafe; to the fleetingly homeless; to the souls, like you, complaining of avoidable misfortune.

I listen.
And I write.
And I breathe.

And for now...it's enough.

It's Enough.

Misguided.

What did such words mean? How do they roll off the tongue, with little or no adaptation to the air surrounding, and still survive in the calamity of the world? How do you whisper them into my ear? Such terms of endearment, and hostility, because you are too afraid to hold someone close. Your neck. The modest slope of flesh from your ear to your shoulder blade-speckled with kisses I gave with my eyes closed so tight. And you wash them away-you throw them into a sea of peppermint foam, left to meet an unloved fate. You do not hold me. You never did it right. Nights entangled were always muffled with the scent of cigarettes and whiskey lingering on the afterthought of your lips. You kiss. You breathe. And I realize slowly: your limbs function solely on a physical level. You do not move in love. Nor do you move in desire. You do not hold me to be closer-you hold me to avoid a face-the closed eyes, begging for your subtle enclosure. How many nights…how many nights you rolled over, to leave me alone. Staring at the ceiling-fruitlessly convincing myself that happiness was within my reach. That I was where I belonged. I should have known. Long ago. The night you crudely examined the physicality of a relationship we were never meant to have. I awoke the next morning, in tears, with smoke still in my lungs from the cigarette of closure I had on the porch. Alone. And you pretended we. Were. Okay. Never would I come to realize such a level of stability was unattainable in your presence. To this moment, I would hold you. I would tell you of my love for your skin. Your bright eyes. And the way that your nose curves slightly-things no one else could ever see. I would tell you of my faith-of my desire to see you succeed. I would hold your hand. And it still wouldn’t be enough. I give myself up. I hold out every inch of my existence in true consideration for your future happiness. I toss aside my own. And to this day, without your presence, your voice, you meaningless and useless chai teas and banters and hideously ignorant messages-I allow you to hold me. In the only way I know how.

You hold my mind.

My soul.

And I haven’t yet let go.

How completely homicidal is this incident?

For who’s fault is it-these brown and blue eyes never did open fully.

And perhaps…they never shall.

out.loud.

I haven't found much of a reason to use a computer, let alone the Internet, to connect.
But today...I was feeling lonely...and I decided I had more to share with the world than I thought.

I don't feel much.
And I'm hoping my words, or better yet, the words of another, will change that.

So here's to the adventures yet to come.
Adventures of a Fragile Star.