I shouldn’t have treated you as a savior.
“You can’t make another happy unless you’re happy yourself,” she says placing a crystal upon my forehead.
Energies change and shift and I find myself thinking of you, knowing that you’re there still thinking of me
Come lift my body with the buzz of your hands
Open my seams,
leave nothing in -between-
Make me forget my name,
these dreams I can’t shake awake.
I’d give you words if they were mine to give
so take my body
“Write one true sentence,” she read the advice of one of her favorite authors and then proceeded to scribble “I MISS HIM” in pencil, so as not to feel so permanent.
Her writing had always been honest, though she tried to avoid the feeling of longing for another and the pain that followed once the realization of distance set in. Because that’s the only reason for anyone to ever miss someone else: distance. Whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, distance in any shape or form almost always resulted in that terrible, deep longing we humans can feel. There’s a word for it in Portuguese that captured this feeling perfectly, in all of it’s melancholy glory: “saudade.”
But she had become too used to goodbyes to allow herself the pleasure of missing something that had, until then, been constant. If she didn’t stay in one place for too long, goodbyes were easy to say. They became expected, embraced even. She tried to count in her head the many times she had said goodbye in the past 29 years, to family, houses, friends, favorite places, lovers… but she couldn’t keep track, the numbers and names just started to dance in her brain. Shouldn’t she be immune to missing people and places by now? The difference in being a gypsy like her, she concluded, is that she had to learn early on to carry home in her heart.
Truly, she never meant her goodbyes. They were just words she uttered as she left with new people and experiences in her heart.
Today, she would let herself miss him.
One true sentence. One true feeling among all the others she felt these days.
“You’re just like me and he’s just like her”
Refusing to see
the individual standing outside
the shell of the body you made.
Still afraid of what will be
when the walls of history come breaking down
on the six of us-
Will you still be around?
Or leaves us two behind
we’re not like the rest of them?
You ask me for my words,
to make you my subject
And one half moon ago
when my body
became a cocoon to yours
and as yours moved into sudden, short movements
I wrote in my head
“Your erratic spasms feel like coming home.”
Drunk with sleep
Been spending my days
forcing these lucid dreams
to take shape,
forcing my words
to have some meaning
other than this
you left me with.
He likes his booze and writes like Bukowski
throwing curse words around with skill,
acting as if he didn’t give a shit.
Someone once said to me: “He just has short man syndrome”
but I think there are darker ghosts in his past-
I met them all, in fact
the night he slept in my bed.
Three puffs for a whole ton of courage
to speak the truths of a generation
that doesn’t like to talk.
Briefly texted short sentences will suffice,
I’ve been told
“Stay on the surface
Don’t let yourself get too attached.”
Well, I don’t want to just tread water
I’d rather drown before I forget
Just how much I love to swim.
Speak to me, lover
whisper my soul alive
For I am sad,
Of trying to have
this love we never had.
Speak to me, lover
breathe me into your lungs
hold me on your tongue
For I am alone
and feel the need to linger
like new books.
scented and stained
with typewritten words
bukowski and gregson,
and the words I couldn’t say