Falling in love with a writer and the way it happens. We love differently and break differently.
We didn’t get to be together, but we never separated either.
And that night around twelve AM.. Me, shivering, afraid, exposed, vulnerable. You cradled me and rocked me back and forth, telling me it’s supposed to happen this way, that we have been here before, that there is a history of lifetimes, and that you were real, not a figment of my imagination.
Cake and rose petals on the floor. Your jaw dropped. I saw the child within you. I didn’t think the child could stab me.
Earlier today, completely unprepared and taken by surprise, I was asked to speak on stage about poetry. What poetry and I am missing a part of me, a part that has been severed and decapitated, not by any choice of mine. Funny, I wished you were there. I wished I could call you, hear the excitement in your voice, hear you say “I am so proud of you.” The way you used to say it, thinking that my achievements were yours, the way you’d say “it’s like looking at my twin, I even sound like you” and I would smile and agree. I wished you’d still exist. The worst part is death… Of everything. I used to think even death was negotiable. I was beyond wrong. It doesn’t matter what I wish, because the universe stops listening at some point.
I always ask way too many questions. Funny, I hardly ever receive answers. Or, in other words, I don’t get satisfying answers. My request is always for more clarification. Perhaps it’s the professor in me. Clarify, elaborate, explain. I don’t want to make assumptions, and I am afraid that my assumptions are mostly inaccurate. I have learned that bravery is to ask for clarification. I draw in my breath, draw my sword, and ask you for more.
To want more is to be greedy, in a sense. It is hard to satisfy my hunger for you. I have survived on crumbs for too long. If I can preserve you, freeze you, keep you safe away from the inevitable pains of life, would that make me possessive? Obsessive, irrational? It is one thing for me to be in pain, but to watch you hurting is a horrible place to be. I stand helpless, watching you, unable to change events, to change the outcome, and to shelter you from the storm. I still think I have access to the skies, and that all it takes is a fight. I still have a fight in me. To fight for a better world for us, a safer life for you, one that doesn’t continue to separate us. Have I finally gone mad? I was a thief, your thief, you said. To steal your heart, to steal a part of your soul, that makes me a soul thief. I doubt that you know how many times you have asked me, silently, to steal your entire soul.
Mornings. The fresh breeze, the start of the day. You seem to have forgotten what it felt like in the morning, the taste of honey, the bitterness of coffee, the sound of my groggy morning voice.
“Hello,” I say, when all I want is to say more. But like everything to do with you, it’s about balance, about the right note, the exact timing.
Some people don’t talk in the morning. You were one of them, and I wasn’t too happy about morning conversations, but it was our time anyway. The first person you speak to. The first hello. The first question, how did you sleep, what did you dream (nothing, I don’t dream, you’d say)..
And a day that begins with you, how could it be anything less than exciting? I told you once that each morning I used to wake up, checking that my eyesight was still here, that my legs were still functioning. I never told you that the only way I would check my hearing is when you’d say good morning. I had lost my hearing a few times over the past years, randomly, as usual. It was one of the senses that I wouldn’t remember to check. But then speaking to you in the morning made me realize this was yet another day, where I had my sense of hearing, and I had you.
That was the beauty of mornings- and the beauty and blessing of you in my life. So here’s to another morning, another day, another moment, where you still exist on this planet, and that, for me, is a good morning.