A man can’t be happy with a bottle and a woman. Hes has to choose one. So falling off the wagon for me is a return to form, before we learned how to judge each other, outside the barriers of suffering. Heartache aint just pretty songs, it’s memory of the body, carnage of the blood, when shame didn’t exist and knees were made for grass, concrete and scraping. How do you move on from a lost love?
People love a mystery and hate the answer.
But I can’t help but keep falling if thought of her makes me lose my step. How can I catch my breath if every chance her lips take it? An impossible pink, thick as a consonant or poems in a boot. Been down that road of doubt and I don’t beck, and I have my doubts with people, but I suspect everything except the flesh. Appearance blinds, words reveal, but phrases have disguises too.
Like when I lie and say “I need you,” but really mean “I can’t stand myself,”
She takes selfie pics in the bathroom with her foot on the sink to show off her shoes, a soft grunge glamour and I’m all about that that life. Such a peaceful face- long nose, bangs down her forehead, big hair and anime eyes. The kind of girl a man imagined into existence while in bed and dreaming off into the ceiling. Chaos, counter-culture and pandemonium. A monster, but the good kind that stirs her coffee counter clockwise. Better than these animals that don’t eat meat but put sneakers on dogs because it makes them walk cute, read a Simone De Beauvoir quote and get obsessed over France, start an Instagram and think they’re professional photographers.
“Who did that to you?” She asked me, and runs her fingers gently across me like a wound. I can’t stand the caress of her eyes.
I am uneventful and they write songs about women that look like her; golden haired with eyes expecting miracles.
I forgot how well her hair spilled on my pillow. Like rivers my mattress and cheap dollar store fabric heart are too stubborn to soak in. My mind housed such savage wants of her. Cruel and deliberate forms of torture that make ill use of hands and tongues. The sight of her skin sends my blood rushing to where I resist but God intended. But His grace is as infinite as my jest, and I make the most of ten dollar bottles of wine and Spotify playlist. Dress our gentle sin in such a way right and wrong become It’s-My-Turn.
“So why did you call?” She asked.
“I’m in the mood to hate myself,” I said. “And you’re better at making me do that than I am.”
We should have never happened, and if I could take us back, I probably wouldn’t. Regrets are for the young and un-assured, and I’m old enough to rent a car. I used to worry, when I was more lonely, that should it all be said and done that I may start looking for her in strangers. The way poets write about loving made me expect some fallout or debris. Like some lovely hell-sent angel might share her weird and heart with me, have the beautiful courage to finally reveal herself, and I would be ashamed at my disappointment to see another girl wasn’t there.
“I can never take you serious,” She said.
I could hear you laugh a thousand times
and never grow tired of it. Which, by the way,
has happened. That video we made
on that night when we did those things
we would d never share with anybody,
there was a moment before the tv turned on
and you tried to twirl and
look sexy in a way that
just didn’t happen.
That instant, I must have played back a thousand times.
Not for the sexy parts. We’re so far apart
I can’t ever even imagine you in that way
again. But at about 29.59 seconds in,
your face breaks into a laugh
over mine, and I make a face
I can’t ever remember making
And that’s it, for me.
That’s how I miss you.
I think back to that time
we were naked and stupid
and so full of each other
that we didn’t care.