this isn’t like the last time.

The truth is, this isn’t like the last time.

I look at you and suddenly I want to be rooftops at sunset and empty classrooms and the way early September tastes on your lips.
but the sky hasn’t stopped crying for the past few days, and whatever words I could say slip into fog, and I’m scared of pulling my eyes away from yours and feeling you disappear again.
I want to kiss you, but I think I’ve cracked my lips against the teeth of open mouthed hungry boys while I was waiting for you to love me back.  If I ever press my lips onto yours again, you’ll drown in the echo of the sound my heart made when you left three months ago because I haven’t yet taught it to be quiet, and it screams against my chest whenever you’re around.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

but I don’t love him anymore.

You are screaming: “but I don’t love him anymore”
and before you know it, he is crashing hurricanes in your lap again.
just like he did six months ago.
like he did on his brother’s couch.
and he kisses you and you let him.
and your mouth is chewing questions you can’t swallow:

– why he turned himself ghost
– why he turned himself corpse
– why he turned himself casualty

this rogue thing, teeth bared, claws out.
digging into everything that ever showed him love.

– fragments

you wanted to be loved, and i was there.

I don’t love like I used to.
I have this terrible feeling in my heart.
Rather, it is a lack of feeling.
Or rather, it is a numbness, the unbearable absence of all things.
Like all this empty in my chest has turned it still and quiet.  Like it crawled out to my lungs and made them stop breathing.  Like it took over my head and made it grow heavy, turned rock-hard and aching. Like it reached out to my limbs and my hands and my fingers and made them go numb.

Right now, I am kissing you and right now I am somewhere else.
Right now, my eyes are on yours but they’re looking right through you.
Right now our bodies are intertwined and already I am miles away, and I have gone limp.
Already I am touching the stars and kissing them instead.
Already I am walking on sand and the waves have caught up to my feet.
Already I am thinking of drowning.

I can’t be what you want.
You want a love that is all devouring, drowning in each other.
You want a love you could get lost in, one you could step into and find yourself waist-deep in all its soft and wanting.
You want a love that is sporadic, unplanned, and ever changing.
You want this entity, but you’re wrong.
You don’t need much, just someone to fall back on.

And you deserve that.  You deserve the world.
You deserve a love that swallows you whole, that wraps itself around you, sinks into your bones, and supports you at your lowest.
You deserve a love that is present and real.
You deserve a love that is everything but all this empty.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

the quiet limbo

They tell you to stop chasing the past; that you’re here in the moment.
But really, you’re stuck in the moment.
No, you’re stuck in the aftermath of it, in the calm after the storm.
You’re stuck in the loose hairs you found on your pillow and the way you couldn’t speak for days.
You’re stuck in the quiet limbo.
The dead silence.
The moments after the fall when your limbs are all broken, but you know you’re still alive.
You’re stuck in the rain melting down your windshield and the way you leaned when your car swerved.
The maps you found built in your own body and the places that turned into warzones.
You’re stuck in fault lines, where your skin crashed together and left scars.
You’re stuck in fault lines, and they’re beginning to crack open.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

 

maybe nothing is ever the same after

you want to kiss her.
because maybe she kisses you back.
maybe you are lying awake in your bedroom in the dark, with the dull talking of movies surrounding you. with her reflection on the screen.
and her arm against yours.
maybe you turn to her and you kiss her.
and for a moment it’s terrifying.
and for a moment it’s so much peace.
maybe she moves the hair out of your eyes and kisses you back.
maybe her fingers intertwine with yours.
maybe all the pieces fit together, your bodies collapse into each other.

and maybe she doesn’t.
maybe you lie there for hours.
sitting on different continents with the sheets lifting oceans between you.
your eyes watch her and neither of you move.
maybe the credits roll and she doesn’t look at you.
maybe your mouth runs dry.
maybe that’s how you spend the rest of your life.
wanting to kiss her but never even reaching her.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write