Can lovers remain friends?
No, but May makes me wonder if there isn’t something else our relationship could settle into apropos. Feelings are pretty sticky in a gross way you would expect, like syrup or childrens hands, and it isn’t often after the playground tumults of lust and love that I find much in the debris of interpersonals. Yet in the spaces I thought her absence would leave vacant and yearning, instead there is the same respect and adoration for her company as before. Instead I’m asking my phone out loud, I-Wonder-How-She’s-Doing, then text to ask out of no obligation other than I’d like to know.
“If that’s what you want, it’s fine,” She said. “But I know you, and I want to make sure we stay friends.”
There’s no point in stating the obvious, like those trust exercises when somone falls backwards into a persons arms. It’s not the height that makes me nervous, but why you can’t just take my word that I believe when you say you’ll catch me. I’d unconsciously decided to become defensive because of it. To a monster the norm is monstrous, and my first instinct was to reject any resemblance of feelings becoming stationary or steady. I can’t stand to sit down, am too odd to ever be even. Give me my coffee boiling hot or cold enough to make my teeth clatter. Let my experiences, and not my telling of them, be exaggerate and exhausting. A life lived in extremes is the only life worth living- I’d sooner rather die right this instant than one day look back at all my sufferings, loss, and achievements thinking “I guess it was okay.”
“Friends, right?” She said again.
May is stubborn in her pleasance, and my heart is rendered incapable of offending her love in any form. I remember the spiritual muck she saw me lying in, the hands that helped hang away the hang-ups keeping me grounded six feet deep. My life is owed to her, and whatever she should ever desire, my very bloody hands will find the way to deliver it to her.
“Friends,” I repeated, but more like a question.
I don’t know what the word entails. Will I be a weekend ruin with her, damning our souls and morality down Amsterdam chasing thighs and feelings? Another Roger barking up my phone and timeline on Saturday nights, pseudo-social sojourns with dim girls and coworkers, howling at the moon because we’re too young to be this lonely. Or will she only call me when her boyfriend is out of town and she’s bored, looking to lose herself in the arms and eyes of someone else that isn’t hopelessly decimate in an unhappy relationship? (Here’s Looking At You, Kid.) Or maybe she means the kind of people that only reach out when they need something, like someone else to double date because his girlfriend thinks you’re too ugly and grumpy to make a move on her or suggest a four-way.
“Friends,” She said again, this time softly under her breath. Then something went soft in her eyes that seemed to add
“I can tell you need one of those.”
I’ve never been good at listening to other people’s problems and I’m chronically late to pity parties. I don’t have the patience for whine and dining, I’d rather jump straight to bed where the daily inconsequentials about yourself take a back seat to the deeper things that are at play. Most people are old fashioned and like to take things slow after sex, consider honest truths about themselves too “intimate” to be shared before the flesh or so immediately. I suppose that must make me a slut, spreading my heart to the first pair of honey eyes and warm thighs with a violent pulse.
I don’t blame the shame because I’m no romantic and either way it doesn’t last. Nothing does. Maybe that’s why I have a tendency to hit it and quit it, emotion wise. And sometimes when I’m standing in a grocery line or watching a movie I have this incredible urge to stand up and yell. I never do so I never know what I would actually say. It can’t be anything healthy, whatever it is that’s pent up, but I’ll never let it out. That might be counterintuitive but that’s life.
Nature can turn against itself. My cat likes to chew on plastic.
“There’s something in the way you look at me,” she says. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like you do.”
Isabella doesn’t drink, she simmers. When I stare into those bright, cloudy pools of milk and caramel she calls eyes a dark desire fills my heart and all extremities. Like burning alive on a smaller scale, and there is no lie in her fire. My nerves tingle in a calm excitement and I become painfully aware, sensitive to the slightest touch that tethers our bodies. Her beautiful mouth curves a smile and I’m called…no, tugged and compelled towards her like a marionette by a string.
“Do you have a wife?” She asks me casually, and I answer no. “A girlfriend then,” she presses, and in the soft intimacy of her legs wrapped in mine, I confess to so-and-so’s. To my heart having grown brash, bitter and unstable. That I don’t trust these whimsies and so called feelings, for they’ve betrayed me, and in their wake I find less beauty in life and even lesser of myself. Sentiments leave a wound and I’ve never been able to resist a scab. Yet it was in that flame of deception and lies that I was tempered, and I was surprised to find my mettle too strong to be melded.
Outside five burros are crying to the dry, arid sunrise. A cricket chirps, two coyotes wail at the moon, and between the bitter thymes of El Torito and Sergio Vargas it begins to rain. Begins to wet the still and thirsty earth so yearning for its due. Isabella mewls and I feel her warm heart thump against the imprint of palm. the crease and edges of her skin smooth and tell a story to my fingertips like braille. Its five am and soon a cab will call me down to home and other sunsets. The notion numbs me. I can’t bare the thought, to leave her side or moment unfulfilled, but what matter that we lay together when sleep tears us apart and a dream will keep us separate.
“Will you stay the night?” She asks. And I nod to confess so.
The coyotes howl and somewhere back home my cat is chewing happily on a garbage bag. I kiss her sweet lips and feel the the ashes of my soul ignite my passion once again.
Love, like life, must find a way.
Raquel is pretty. Not hot, not sexy, bad, or “banging” but…pretty. Gorgeous, even.
There’s something so innocent in her sexy, and whatever makes her sweet so appealing isn’t from the swing of her hips or the way she makes her golden-nether eyes flutter. No, what I can’t resist is her simplicity of skin, the arch of her spine where the back dips like a sunset into her jeans. A smile full of secrets and a sigh carrying the anatomy of stars, clouds, and void. She’s a cosmic cutie; summer solstice for lips and planets where her eyes should be. A kiss full of whispers that fills you with a feeling easy to describe, but wouldn’t want to tell your mom about. A shame without the guilt to it, sin of the highest piety: she makes me emotionally horny.
There’s such a thing as natural talent; people that are good at something for no reason other than that they’re the one who’s doing it. Seduction is a skill, and whether she was aware of it or not, Raquel was gifted.
“Don’t you hate sports? Why do you have a baseball jersey?” Raquel asks, poking through my esteem and closet.
There’s two kinds of lust, I think. The kind we feel at movie stars or your brothers girlfriend- the one for the unreachable and endless. Then there’s the other especially reserved for that girl that makes funny faces when she wears your glasses, the one that’s yours but just out of reach and inches from your hands.
“So this is what it’s like to have a parole officer.”
She laughs, and the melody, I imagine, is the sound of galaxies being born.
“Is that your grandmother?” She asks, and I nod in a numb silence.
But another person in your heart can be terrifying, the way they echo so warm and easy to a place and memory. She has on socks with skulls across the ankle, size 6 Puma’s leaving imprints on the sands of my mind and studio apartment. Sunday nights well spent not doing much. Mum nothings in the sink, the kids are at the sitter, Making A Murderer on a loop and remnants of Peru leaving Pio Pio marks in green sauce. Taxicab confessions that don’t feel so scripted. Netflix and spills.
So many sanguine sensories, unforgettable as amnesia.
“You have her smile,” She says, and the picture of my grandmother keeps scowling.
Raquel is bright as ever in the darkness of my longing.
She walks along my room, my marble monastery, soft and curious. A note I scribbled on the dresser this morning calls her and she almost reaches to read it, but a reserve catches her and she flinches. She admires the scrap from a distance instead: observing it and the mess of books and loose change with a careful and aloof interest you’re scared to touch, like items in a museum.
I’ve never let a woman in my apartment. For sex or otherwise. I liked the privacy, the sanctity, the heaven of having a hell all to myself. A castle in the corner of a second story cloud- I’d left confidences in the kitchen with the cook too dark to share. The joys and pangs aisling my closet were biblical – an entire library of wounds and darlings these bare rooms bared witness to. Secrets of the deepest matters I’d sooner take to the grave than to a therapist.
So if these walls could talk, they wouldn’t be talking for very long.
“Your mirrors cracked,” She says, and I pretend I never noticed.
“I didn’t notice.” I said.
“Because you never use it.”
“Are you calling me ugly?”
Her face, bright and bold by the smooth bows of her eyebrows, is blue and blushed and full of so many beautiful things. I feel the way people must feel just before they get the idea of getting a tattoo of somebody else’s name – positive, but absolutely fucking insane.
I want to call her beautiful, but I know she would resent it. Raquel doesn’t take kindly to compliments. There were names, sources that I could cite vaguely on as to why. Gerald, David, Joseph and maybe a Tom or two. Men that swore their loves to the fullness moon but were waning, waxing girl-crush poetics until someone was late or a baby bump. Men that left nothing but a trail of dust, smoke, and children in her face.
Assholes or the usual suspects, who’s to say?, the only matter to mine being having to compete with the graves they left behind. I want to call her beautiful, to lay my affection for her luna eyes in words just like the wolves. But I couldn’t. So I didn’t say a word. Keeping my wants all to myself and watching her desperately from a distance, stuffing my lust into a look because she finds words and kisses so questionable.
A loaded look is better. Intent has a wider palate than the tongue.
“What is it?” She says. But I don’t say anything.
She starts to undress in a loud silence, and I watch the subtle fluxes of her spine rippling a Rorschach. Dark and mesmerizing shifts slithering beneath her skin like snakes. She came to me that night like dreams, unexpected and all at once, waiting and ready to take my love and passion like a guillotine. Tracing her finger along my chest and hands, reading the cuts and grooves like a wound or tarot card. I hold her close and not at all, run my hand along her face and side in a distant admiration. The way you hold a marble that shines a certain way when you hold it against the sunlight. I turn cruel and deliberate. At times I found arches on her neck, thighs and lips I would love fiercely. And when I feel her ache, feel her breath and heart pause and quiver, I retreat to a tender but empty caress, then say her name when I meant to sigh.
“What is it,” She whispers, somewhere between exasperation and a beg. “What is it, don’t you want to?”
I’ve never liked sex, although I have enjoyed it. The act goes rotten with analysis if you spend more than a thought on it. As a man, anyway. To penetrate a woman…Christ. There’s a moment before momentum moans you on when the act feels terrible and invasive. But nature has its safeguards, and before you have the mind or heart to turn away, a certain sight or sound boils the blood and instinct takes the wheel. Then all is lost, and all is gained.
We’re all slaves to the pleasure principle.
But this was hard to phrase, so instead I traced my name across her chest with my fingertips. Stuck on the stillness that makes my skin feel useless.
“You’re so strange,” She says, bordering between pensive and thoughtful. “When you’re in the moment you really are, but when you’re not…you go somewhere.”
I’ve been told that I have the eyes of a pianist – sad and a little lonely. That I looked like the kind of man to slam a door behind him. I can’t remember who said what. The dead tell no tales and I’ve still got grave dirt under my fingernails. My own Gerald’s and David’s I buried in women and bottles, people that left me pregnant with hurt and my own undoing.
“Where do you go?”
And they’re both the same, aren’t they? Children and a heartache. Sometimes you love or just fucking hate them, but no matter what there’s no ripping them from your veins. Incomplete or inconvenient as they are, they’re yours.
“Nowhere,” I lie.
Because even when they die, they’re yours.
Your days weigh more than the family around your neck.
Nine months and nine pounds without your voice or hand,
my mother called, and you said: “Give Him My Name, Noel.”
And she abided, faithfully, by the promises made
that warm May night. But years proved these words,
like so many other parts of you,
were broken, and so I am yours
in name only.
I haven’t your dark eyes, fair skin or welcome wiles.
That cooing air of arrogance
in your smile, or the graceful way your beard
rises and settles into a dignified chin.
Your daughters are your spitting image,
shorter and effeminate, but telling tales
of their ancestry by the nines
of their soft and thoughtfully thin
eyes, a wild nose above cupid bow lips.
I am not like them;
every camera and mirror whispers,
how my genes have aborted you.
And yet strangers say the strangest things-
like that I am most your son when I look most annoyed.
Something in the nothing of demeanor
makes me summon your image to men and women
that have known you. The passive opening and closing of a fist.
In a folded leg, an unconsciously tapping foot,
staring into the distance with a cigarette dangling from my lip.
All of these acts I thought my self are borrowed,
are not my own, are ghostly references to a man
who grew up growing you
says are bestowed;
are reflections of the seed
My first razor was from the deli man,
his eyes lost when I asked him how to do it,
until he could understand that I was young and
that I needed. My first day of school was Johanna
ironing clothes, running me over with a lint brush,
combing my hair and reminding me
no girl likes a boy who sucks his thumbs.
Sex came from a box, a secret, a word of mouth
passed along the boys and bus rides.
Shared and studied in the dim blue tint of monitors
and television screens when nobody could see us
in our vile innocence. YouTube learned me
with tutorials, my first suit from my first check
a baggy thing. Green shirt, black tie, but
from your few visits I’d already known
how to make a knot
having been left in one.
Yet I am most your son when I look most annoyed.
The passive opening and closing of a fist. A folded leg.
An unconsciously tapping foot. Staring into the distance
with a cigarette dangling from my lip.
And I wonder, can character carry in a vein?
Have I shed and denied your look but not your scowl?
Am I as doomed as you are, to the rum on my breath
and vagabonding with the boys on Tuesday night’s
rather than with my family home? Father,
our days are numbered like the calendar
and when I’m fugitive to a feeling;
waxing gibbons and poetics at the moon,
I’m tempted to think my temperament is nothing
more than an heirloom. Is a remnant of you
in the recesses of my blood,
and I’m tempted to take a razor and gut you out.
But there is no salvation in suffering your self;
it’s best to leave that to the masochist.
Instead I’ll wear your name proudly,
but like a cautionary tale.
Instead I’ll learn to love
better than how you’ve taught me.
My aunt has a rubber strip that separates her kitchen tile from her hardwoods in her dining room, and her dog, Dusty, knows he’s not supposed to cross this line. Especially when people are eating in the dining room. He always did, though. One minute Dusty would be behind the line, but then, when no one was looking and what seemed within the blink of an eye, he’d be several feet into the trash bin dogging on the leftovers and whatever food whittled onto the floor.
I decided to observe Dusty one day, just to see what was really going on and what he would do.I waited behind the line until he thought no one was looking, and then put one paw over the line…no one yelled. Okay. Now the other paw over the line…no one yelled…? Okay! He dragged his whole body to those two paws and no one noticed?…Dusty was dusting off what was left of tonight’s meatloaf in the trash bin.
Dusty is representative of many of us – we know there is a line we are not supposed to cross, but we want to cross the line so bad, so we break it up into tiny little steps that are so subtle and small you don’t notice or do anything until they are way over the line.
In the difficult do I divide my same, and I am Dusty. For someone hard headed, “DON’T” sounds like less of a warning and more like a challenge.
“Hey” My text said.
“wassup” Hers replied.
I could feel it bubbling again- that secret, the need to spill the moans groaning from my sleeves and slithering in these veins. A systematic sickness hell bent on nothing but a laugh, who rears his restless head from madness to make the best good times feel mediocre. A long quiet had put my soul to sleep. There’s little solace in silence, and I found myself in that deafening howl: the quiet of yourself. When you’re staring out the window and finding white noise where there used to be thoughts.
Who’d have guessed apathy and the infinity of nothing could be so loud, like turning to a channel with static and the volumes at a hundred. And in the silent spaces between myself there was an anger growing. I was surprised to see him there, cross and glaring at the dead eyes of a subway advertisement. He doesn’t talk or budge, but he’s there, slowly filling the space of whatever used to occupy these veins.
I can’t be left to my own devices.
Especially without Wi-Fi.
My father used to bark that rage is impotent, that nothing ever comes from it, but farmers raze their fields whenever the crops are poisoned and they need to start again. A prescribed burn was in the works, and maybe, before I could make something better of May and these bones, I had to destroy them first. Devastation is a form of creation, after all, and my hands were wet with kerosene and reaching for a lighter. Self-destructive tendencies are a staple of my bloodline. The Spaniards turned against their kin, burning men and women alive in the name of their Christ and God. My grandfather put a pistol in his mouth when ___________ took the capital.
‘Por pays y patria’ was all the note said.
My own father left my mother and the state’s to go back to the motherland and chase 15 year old girls. You could make the argument that Hepatitis took him instead, but I’d say that’s just semantics. I followed closely behind his footsteps, a drink away from texting someone May wouldn’t approve of. But I’m no liar, so I took the cowards accomplice and dickless alibi of – “if she doesn’t ask where I was, I wouldn’t tell.”
I took a drink to rev the engine, finger hovering over SEND like a foot over the gas pedal. What is it about becoming uneven that I found so exhilarating? So cathartic? The world spun just the same, felt farther from the bottom of a glass. But behind the bell jar, for a night or hour, I was still, and tingled to the touch and joys of other people. A wise man once said the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but he forgot to include ‘not giving a fuck how you get there.’ I said a silent prayer called Fuck It and hit SEND.
“Let’s meet up.” Sat staring at those black letters, glaring back on a grey background like a tombstone. RIP dignity.
There’s fucking, then there’s love; there’s bruises, then there are cuts. My cruel intentions were PG rated at best; and knowing Kendra to know my situation with May, with Lesbos knot tied securely around her waist, my mile high lust was balanced in reasonably low expectations. I didn’t need to have sex with Kendra, although I undeniably wanted to. I wanted to skirt around the edges of it to see how low the hem goes. Even if she had a history of preferring strawberry chap stick.
An hour long two minutes, three dots, bated breath, and then-
“road house” was all her text said.
Two trains later I hovered down Crosby Street, stray as lint, hungry like the wolf but too sheepish to make a move anywhere passed the bouncer. Suddenly the oak exit doors shot open and out came tumbling the body and bra straps of a thirty something pierced tongue Goddess Spinster; gracefully fumbling for a light she must have conjured from her dress, because it didn’t have any pockets in it. The corners of her corneas painted black in winged shadows, she took two long steps (that would take an average height five,) with a confidence that bordered on Does-She-Even-Realize-Anybody-Else-Is-Here? Goddess took a hard, long drag and her hazel eyes locked directly past me, the way glances hit glass windows looking for a reflection; directly but not really. Almost like the glass isn’t even there.
I do not trust appearances, much less a woman’s. Have you seen them dress? The brushing of their hair, artful apply of colors, contour, shadow, blush, and makeup. Deliberate stress to décolletage, lips, eyes, and other more lucrative assets. Whether they do it for men, other women, or themselves, is immaterial. A woman is a carefully constructed false pretense, and as a man who only seeks the truth, however ugly, in all things, they are my opposite and natural enemy.
I stood on tiptoes to look past the mirage for the further illusion awaiting me.
Past Goddess I caught a glimpse of a crowd of cool, casually dressed twenty somethings warming to the closing personal space getting smaller by the second at Girls Get In Free admittance. They all looked so happy, sapped in smiles, laughs, and strobe lights. Then the giant wood door slammed shut and that beauty turned to the brooding figure of a man with baggy eyes and a chip on his shoulder staring back at me. It was like peeking into heaven, only the bouncer probably wasn’t named Peter. Plus the line was surprisingly short, and all things considered, I actually had a chance of getting in.
A half hour and sour patience later, God must have forgave me. Uncomfortably shifting between the inflated egos and skin littering the club, Kendra was where I thought she’d be: standing neatly by the bar with her hands in the air and waist agreeing with the beat. The sight of her made me want to wake up on the right side of a bad decision, fiddling thumbs and pleasure points. Turning down the thermostat and letting the body do the heating.
She was self-maintenance in the most baseless facets of company, batting her eyelashes and biting fingernails all in the same sweet, calculated, and cornocopious motion. As if she were surprised to see me, after telling me to be there. An oxymoron I couldn’t resist like being drunk and feeding my insecurities. She was an Arctic Monkeys junkie, a little bruised, maybe, but not broken. Hobbies including hot yoga and lady bug tattoos, weekend silent retreats which were surprising considering her inability to stfu. She might dap or do the running man, take a shot or the next cab ride home. Help you up or kick dirt in your face and laugh, depending on the mood she’s in. Love you and leave, or stay and not. Picturesque, her the face the frame. Sitting there holding my world at the sway and mercy of her tongue, and whatever the hell it was she was saying.
Unpredictable and fractured like a stanza, she spoke in the unmistakable allure of poetry and pandemonium.
“You like this song?
I’m feeling Distortion,
doesn’t it remind
you of an ex? True.
But minus the e, like
are you drinking?
Shut up, I like to ask questions. And
I’ll like you
if you ask me things too.”
She was like a song stuck in my head; lyrical ligaments that kept me present but somehow disassociated from the moment. All it takes is two song plays for us to segue into gentle How-You-Been’s, ignoring the lace thrusting on the stage to settle into familiarity. I’m uncomfortable in a strip club setting but some instinct kicks in and my reactions are scripted. The insecurities and self-doubt jiggling from 5 stranger’s tits take a backseat, and I’m only smiling and laughing at Kendras jokes because I’m supposed to.
Kendra doesn’t have any friends here, just a bartender she calls by first name. She was alone, standing next to someone else, sharing in the lawls and woo’s of a song that made everybody sing lyrics. So where did I fit in? A friend, I thought, only invited to be as live as the women moving their flesh for currency. A subordinate to split the tips, drink, tits, and inevitable tab at the end of the night. A wingman on a test flight, in less than words: company for the sake of it. And I was okay with it, palming Kendra a wad of dollar bills and watching her watch the dancers while she rocked and balanced her hips and attention between us.
There’s power in surrendering to someone else’s expectations, of letting go. Only…I’m never really submitting, and it’s more of a performance. Knowing where we stood with each other gave me an active freedom – I could carelessly shift my likes and passive aggressive disinterest. Peppering looks bordering on eye-fucks, to a gaze foreplay mumbling Sure-Whatever whenever Kendra started to whisper something that bordered on boring. I must have had a latent talent for saying all the wrong things right, because just when I gave up on her marked when she started getting into me.
“Four year no calls!,” She screamed, singing along.
“Now she’s looking tipsy in strip club bar,” I yelled.
Her head cocked back to a laugh she couldn’t hold, and her body fell into me with the warm abandon clothes must hit bedsheets after laundry. Our hands found each other, and as they laced like sneakers I could tell she was genuine and enjoying the moment we shared together. And when the kiwi scent from her curls blended perfectly with my Bacardi, I enjoyed it too. Her face resurfaced from my neck as she stood between my legs, and I could feel the dampness of her sweat and center sighing on my skin. Our hands never separated, and I made a conscious decision to rub her thumb with mine.
Letting her go then, in that moment, with the sweat beading down the open neck of her décolletage and all my feelings, it was as hard as kicking an addiction is. Like a bad LSD trip, I felt the strychnine and moaning in my veins, felt so high, felt so perfect, felt there was nothing in this world I’d rather do. Then the song changed, an air released, and immediately I felt dirty. The euphoria from the flesh against me, the tones tonging from the sidebar like waves that come crashing down, hard, left me feeling dirtier than I’ve ever actually been.
Kendra was a contraceptive, which is ironic considering she’s a lesbian and wasn’t on one. Something that could easily be taken for granted (or precaution) to avoid a bad night and 18 years. Hilariously serious in her senility, curious and invective, ready to bust it open or break it down; depending on how the mood hit. I was scared of her the way people are afraid of an apocalypse.
…but fuck, isn’t it fun to imagine?
The motel lights are flashing: red then green, red then green, red, red, red, then green. A brown carpet gone black and the curtains are dingy, while I smoke out the window because the nicotine affects her asthma. Another late night charade of two souls deluding and deluded enough to think it might just work. Always on the verge, of a relapse into the same old trap and mistake of marriage, kid(s) and picket fence. A tale as old as time, and these violent delights have delightful ends,
Hope dies last, they say, and being the dog I am, I would rather perish like a dog than deny them.
“Mnf…close the window,” May shudders from the bedside.
I flick the cigarette outside, and she isn’t Kendra but fuck…isn’t it fun to imagine?
Did you think of us as intimates? Do you think yourself as special? Don’t you know my skin is Catholic, letting every-body-in? No, my mild Molotov, you are not the one who got away. You’ve not the eyes or touch worth mentioning and idolized in poetry. I’m sorry my sweet minutiae, but yours is not a love requiring sonnets, or sorry glances at the moon.
What you are is good morning on a Monday at work, a bowl of mints on an office desk, an umbrella for if it rains because it’s cloudy (but then it doesn’t.) You are a nickel I found in my back pocket when I was 10 cents short. A pencil at arm’s reach when I’m on the phone and need a pen. You are the first 15 seconds of every video on YouTube, losing a set of keys when somebody else is home, footprints on the beach near a rising tide, a song I heard and think I kind of really like…but will never actually download.
You are the vague space between laying in bed and falling asleep. You are the 4th, 7th, and 13th time I had sex.
Necessary. But pointless. Mundanely momentous and irrelevant,
you will not be remembered or entirely forgotten.
No song, or place, or prose, will resign me with nostalgia.
You are not a love requiring sonnets.
You are just another thing that happened.
These pills are small and delicate, helpless little orphans,
and my body is a temple. Ain’t nobody got it like
this little bottle of mine- white little capillaries
pills of death that pulse and keep me (from)
One every four hours, do not exceed six.
I’m sixty nined from bars and dimes every minute so
I dose in doubles, puffing silver linings
on a rummy cloud. I am The Great Pretender,
forgetful historian, a series of bullet points
on what it means
to be listless. I am the vague biographer,
caustic chronicler of the categorically insignficant.
But it’s not so bad. These woes
whoa me no more and dreams feel more real
when I’m awake; I call it lucid living. I still
envy the bravery of the corner vagrant
shouting from his crack-ed lungs at pigeons
and public in the park, but at least
he doesn’t linger in my mind
and ruin me any more.
My heart no longer brags like Plath-
no more I am I am I am’s- it sighs.
But twice every four hours
my smile comes easier, and
I can see the faults in our starlight eyes
and badly thatched hearts.
Stale highs eventually go violently low
and I have to stop myself from smashing something
delicate. The closest thing being a bottle, or myself,
and I would, if only I could get a grip. But
when the night grows teeth and digs into the heart
and memories, what do you do?
Set the alarm and
try again tomorrow.
Nothing is ever finished. The past is a misnomer and all my golden years are sterling.
I found an old cell phone with a list of awesome baby names saved in the drafts. Bullet points full of Connor, Clara, Autumn, Optimus Prime, and Abigail’s. A pleasant ring with each of them remained, had ripened against the test of time and our codependent fantasies. Dearly-Beloved’s from an Elvis preacher, personalized wedding vows we drafted in text messages- we were joking of course, but not really, because can-you-actually-imagine-us-as-parents?
We could, I think, even if we pretended not to. Love is surrentine but not everything gets better when it settles. Some stuff rots if left unfinished or open ended. It’s all in the ullage, the empty spaces that tempers and separates grapes from wine, the quality of the batch. Z’s name smiled from the capsule of my Motorola RAZR, her Contact saved in all caps because even then I knew: 2009 was a good year.
“Let’s go to Coney Island,” She says. “I want to get my face painted.”
“That sounds like a stupid reason to go all the way to Coney Island,” I shot, with a snort at her wiles I always playfully proposed as childish, even when I was already mentally Google-mapping our way there.
She was folded across my futon, thumbing the pages of her latest anesthetic on her Kindle. Something Jennifer Campbell or Sophie Divry, I think. Whatever it was, she wanted to read it together but changed her mind when I asked if the author was dead. I could never trust or like a writer that was still breathing. They might change their mind.
I watched her finger turn the page and remembered she always had such pretty hands, the kind that were made for holding. Thin, brittle fingers and fawn knuckles that shifted beneath her skin like a Rorschach. As she drummed her fingers against her chin, the slender of her tendons slithered and I saw something waiting to be surfaced, like a kitten hiding under bed covers, or something Oedipal. A work of heart with a breast so full of feeling that she cried every time she had an orgasm.
“Your face sounds fucking stupid,” She harks, not bother to look up.
She’s always had too much imagination. The world inside of her head was so much bigger than the one outside of it. Every day at two she texts to ask what I’m wearing, but she doesn’t settle for a picture. She tells me to describe it, and when I asked her why, she said she loves the way I internalize. That I have a way of seeing things, a perspective she can’t get enough of. Then she sighs and shakes her head, a signature move when she thinks she isn’t making any sense.
It’d been six years since we had been so casual. It all (re)started with a benign butt dial that turned to small talk turned to catcalls, that evolved to morning texts reluctantly leading to dinner and a woo me. The hours snuck through the wine and what we thought would be so hard came easy. Her every word filled me with a hundred more and she couldn’t stop laughing when like I kept calling our waitress by her first name. Relearning what we already heard about each other or didn’t know, almost like a first date, except strangers didn’t know each other this well. Caught up in catching up, oh my god look at the time. It’s already late, why pay a cab ride? You should stay over anyway.
“What if I don’t want to go to Coney Island?” I ask.
I leased a pocket in my heart and dresser reserved for her, and she occupied the space with her time and tie dye tops in a sweet but silent resignation. She refused to keep any work clothes in her dresser, not a single earring or piece of jewelry. Only t shirts and pajama bottoms, only things she could leave behind in case of a fire or some act of God. Naturally, she packed for me the way people pack for disasters, and given my penchant for my love shifting like the sea, I didn’t blame her.
The love that bore me was violent. I grew up, having yet to grow into myself, and the way I wanted Z was a constant and addiction. A young, brash, and preoccupying kind of love. The type of enamored that won’t go to bed, that stays up clutching at a pillow and a memory the way cats dig their nails to keep from falling off of a ledge. Desperate and needy affection, a passive addiction. Spending my nights yowling, scratching, pawing at the phrase trying to understand and get to the center of it.
“Then I guess I won’t go.” She says.
We never spoke about what was happening. The shift in our relationship going back to something similar felt about as reliable as a groundhog. Commitment chicken was the name of the game and she was doubtlessly afraid I would pull another Marcus, to leave just as she was getting comfortable and used to needing me. Marcus, her father, took sails when Z was 8 years old after digging the family in debt over horse races, lottery gambling, and drinking. She lived in a shelter for six months until her mother moved in with an uncle and put the family back together.
Prone as I am to habits, I think Marcus may be the reason I’ve picked up drugs the way people pick up hobbies, yet look down on gamblers the way people look down on heroin addicts. There is a difference. At least with (enough) alcohol I got a high – zero risk, high reward, and I’ve always preferred a safe bet.
“Why wouldn’t you want to go alone?” I ask.
In 2010 he came back to her life, full of regret, love, and kidney problems. All those years of the bottle catching up. He was dying but swore he wouldn’t, because he’d changed. But then he did, because he hadn’t. It was a Thursday when it happened and Z spent that whole night staring out the window drinking coffee, and all I could do was sit with her and do the same. She didn’t move an inch, only bit her lip the way she did whenever she was reading, either thinking or waiting to wake up and for it all to be some kind of dream.
We were six months past the honeymoon and the grief that grieved her was quiet, anxious, and sudden. She spent a lot of night crying after that, but it wasn’t over orgasms any more. Her sadness seemed to spring from everywhere. While we talked about the cute kid with a lisp from her job, returning books at the library, when we were watching The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The world was full of places and smells that shoved Marcus into her heart again, and the poor thing couldn’t take having lost her father twice. I never knew what to when it happened, except hold her in my arms until I couldn’t feel her tears or convulsing. Swear I’d never leave her, because I loved her. But then I did, because I didn’t.
“Because I enjoy you,” she says, to summarize.
She enjoys me, she says, but I don’t entirely understand what she might mean. No one’s ever told me anything so simple and disarming, and while I can’t make heads or tails of it, I still like the way hearing her say it makes me stutter, reminds me to feel. Reminds me of the excellence of skin, the great fire that tethers at the thighs. And the smoke oozing from their mouths like entrails. My lust is passive aggressive. I’m hopeless. Try to weigh my option but the scale is broken. It’s all love with me until the day it isn’t. Women are like French fries: spectacular, but I find very little appetizing about just one.
The distance happened the way it always does- not at all, and all at once. Soon weekend visits turned to afternoons until it didn’t really matter what the color of my tie was that day. Baby please aimed to tease, the affection was forced but her heart was in the right place. I was blooming into May and she was falling into Hunter, and despite my pretending to have absolutely any kind of will power, I had a deep and burning need to look him up. To see the face of my replacement.
Maybe it was envy.
I found his Facebook page. He had a long face and dead eyes- the nose of a philosopher. Notable and tragic. A modern agonist. Poets, always so sad and nostalgic, the boys in blue. Men more afraid of life than dying, whose hearts turn grey long before their beard does. I clicked the red ex and closed the laptop, listened to the lull of traffic from my window, had a glass of wine and went to bed.
The next morning Z was looking out the window with a cup of coffee in her hand, thinking…no, waiting. My memory sneaks between her and the hour like a second cup of coffee and that 2 o clock feeling. Something you indulge in behind a laptop and password protected WiFi when the doors locked and you think nobody else will ever know. The secrecy of it is only to give a false sense of control. Like the “close door” button on elevators.
I knew I was losing her. Our love had turned to a blank envelope, and before I let it go I had to address it.
Even water, if left to standing still, stales, and goes bad. We must learn to flow.
“Tell me a story,” She said. Women are always telling me to tell them stories.
“Once upon a time…” I said.
“A long time ago, I forget from where. But there’s this story about a couple. They went to see this wise man. They weren’t sure if they should get married, but the wise man wouldn’t help them. He just kept talking about this treasure. He was blind, I forgot that part. It’s important He was blind and he knew about this treasure, and it’s all he would go on about. The couple left and they decided fuck it. Let’s go look for that treasure. So they did. From all the shit the old man said they found exactly where to dig. They dug and they dug and they were crazy excited. Eventually they find something, it was this rock. Tiny little thing, they damn near kept digging when they found it actually. It was the size of like your thumb or something, and on the ground it looked like any other piece of rock. But when they held it up into the light, the thing shined like something they’ve never seen before. It almost looked like a diamond. So the guy says, well, it’s not much but this must be it. This is what the old man was going on about. But the woman, she wouldn’t have it. She kept saying this can’t be it, this can’t be it, it’s so small. There’s got to be more. This It can’t be it, we’ve got to keep looking. He takes the stone with him every day to help her dig. She leaves. Man goes back to the wise man. Can’t bear to keep the thing. Wise man looks at him and says:
She sat across from me, the lovely lashes of her eyes flapping slowly at her finger dainting the edges of her glass of orange juice. Her mind and heart transfixed on some soft but hurtful thought I couldn’t fathom or nerve myself to pry. All of a sudden she smiled, hummed routine thank you, dashed her cheek, and spell was broken.
If we had stayed a moment longer…my heart quivers at the consequence.
“The point is…” I began.
“You still don’t want to go to Coney Island,” She said, glooming out the window, and something in her voice made it sound like more of a tragedy than a triumph.
He’ll never love you like I do, Z.
Today is not a day for words:
they evaporated when the sun rose, violet pink and red,
this rose sun, melting the day before.
They’ve lost all meaning, these words,
these words I loved the day before,
beating page thumping at my fingertips,
pulsing hymns of hims and hers and theys
and souls and images.
But now all I see are shapes, hollowed,
carved out silhouettes of what they meant
empty as a shadow. Meaningless-pointless-shallow
shapes. I’d rather sit outside bare in the cold
chilled bones from sitting too long on steppes
of stones, feeling drops of rain dampen my cigarettes,
than sit at home writhing in papercuts,
The day before words were so much more,
but not today, because
today is not a day for words.
Sixth grade roaming an empty elementary school
hungry, but we didn’t know
for what. One day left, then, Summer-
and the heat goes up like teacher shrugs
for homework and nobody cared.
Justin was cool- backwards cap, and young,
and pretty, and a boyish face.
Jessica was tall like high school, and I
heard she got expelled for smoking weed
in the girls bathroom.
Tamara was black and bored and blue all over:
anything anyone ever said she made pretty,
mean faces at.
Tanya had shiny hair
down to her shoulders,
a simple but bright smile,
her brother or dads oversized overalls.
I liked Tanya, but Tanya only liked to hit me.
“Two for flinching bitch,” she would say.
Punch, punch, and sore arms.
We played spin the bottle, because Justin.
Second turn I spin, and it lands on Tanya.
She looks at me and laughs, loud. “Nope, no way.”
Nobody minds. They shrug and we keep playing.
Even I understand, because reasons.
Spin the bottle turns to spin the Justin.
Tanya kisses him and her face shines Christmas,
like what she always wanted. Jessica pretends
to enjoy it and Tamara gives him a peck on the cheek and
The girls smoke in the girl’s bathroom, the boy’s don’t.
Justin looked bored because we didn’t have much to talk
about, but we weren’t old enough to know that,
or have phones
to pretend to stare at
He said he’ll be right back, but then he wasn’t,
and Tamara walked away like I wasn’t even there.
Then Jessica left.
Then Tanya left.
No one is in the hall and I’m going to go see Michael
because everyone else is gone
and social embarrassment hasn’t dawned on me.
I’m about to leave but an arm grabs from behind
and shoves me into the stairs. I’m scared and I see
it’s Tanya. She liked to hit me. I’m more scared so
I closed my eyes and I braced for punches and sore arms
but nothing is happening. I opened my eyes and
she was standing close enough that I can count
the denim strips on her overalls. She leans in,
she kisses me? Is this a kiss? I’m confused and
we stay like that for a while. I stop, to breathe.
She leans back and I’m confused
but happy? Because she saw it on my face and laughs
“Tell anyone I’ll kill you,” she had said.
“And two for flinching, bitch”
Punch, punch, and sore arms.