chemistry

I know that it’s just science-
oxytocin and endorphins rush in my blood then
dance their way back down to normalcy
in my brain.
But I can’t help it.
I’m like an addict
and he’s become the drug.

So what’s the antidote?
time and distance?
How do I wean myself off?
How do I keep my wits about me?
How to keep my walls supported?
How to not let just another somebody rule my heart?

Advertisements

Siren call

She called to me in my dreams, kiss me she asked

And I did, because our souls somehow found each other in this crazy world and there is no time to be afraid

Not anymore

She made me question all my notions, spill all my secrets and tears as if it was ok-

I was safe.

Are you my twin flame? I wanted to ask

but decided to settle for dear friend instead.

writer’s block

ink fills the blank space of the page

with words that come

one at a time

reluctantly and without rhythm

without heart

I’m not used to it

my usual words carry so much

weight and worth

into what I write

but here, takes these ones instead

they’ll have to do for now

until those more profound

find their way into my soul

out through this pen

onto the page and then

over to you.

this type of magic

tell me your Mondays are sleepy and saturated
with an unquenchable thirst for Sundays spent under the covers with me,
tell me you’ll dance in rainstorms when they come
and tell me you won’t forget
the mornings we’d stay in bed for hours and the walks we would take only for necessary supplies: croissants with whiskey in our coffee,
tell me you like that I’m just as good
at being bad as you are;
tell me my laughter has become
your favorite sound
and when you first open your eyes beside me, awaken my spine with a trail of kisses
and my heart with the sound of your voice near my ear
whispering “bom dia,” good morning in my native tongue,
as you bring me back to this moment, this life,
and out of the mediocre existence
my heart had for so long settled for.
Dance with me in the kitchen
to all the songs we have yet to call our own
and let me feed you, body and soul,
read you poetry while we lounge in the comfort of the four walls
and two arms I’ve turned into home,
and when the sun fills my eyes with pools of honey tell me I’m beautiful as if you have never seen me before and run your hands over my body to memorize every curve, every ridge, every scar…

If I were looking for just another someone
I would’ve settled long ago.

darling,
tell me we were made
for this type of magic.

this type of love.

Merry Grinchmas

My first Christmas with grief
was a mere three months after Paul passed away.
I didn’t even have time to prepare,
I didn’t even know such a thing was impossible yet then-
the pain was palpable,
cold and on the surface,
the loss starting to etch itself in my eyes and skin.
I barely remember it, though I do remember drinking my way through it
and at one point booking a tarot card reading. I recall that the reader said
“you’re trying your best to celebrate but you’re depressed”
to which I replied
no shit.
I went to have dinner at his parent’s house on the 25th.
His mom was sick and after saying a cordial hello,
spent the rest of the evening upstairs in her bedroom.
I didn’t blame her.
It was unbearable to try to celebrate without him there.

My second Christmas with grief was better.
Mainly because I decided to skip the whole thing all together.
I didn’t send anyone any gifts. No christmas cards. I wished everyone a merry grinchmas and allowed myself the freedom to do as I pleased with my feelings.
The only celebration was an intimate Christmas day spent with my then-
roommate and her immediate family and her boyfriend in Fort Collins.
Christmas morning I woke up to snow and tears.
Merry White Griefmas.
But they didn’t last all day, the snow and tears- and they didn’t keep me from getting dressed and playing white elephant for the first time with everyone else around the Christmas tree.
I felt loved.
It was nice.
But it all was still heavy. To me, anyways.
Probably because I was sad and sadness weighs a ton.
The thing about holidays is that they make the loss feel fresh all over again,
it’s like the scars are picked by the fingertips of
each encounter forced upon you,
each table you sit at surrounded by couples and family members,
and then there’s that damn empty chair beside you,
the thought of the perfect gift you would’ve gotten him this year,
the memory of your very own christmas tradition you had created together-
brunch with a lot of Champagne and just a little bit of Santa,
just to say you celebrated it properly,
a balanced holiday affair,
if you will;
Fresh tears and blood start to flow with
each christmas card that arrives,
joy and love so clearly stamped on your friends’ faces
it’s so awful and conflicting
to feel so happy for them
and so sad
for me.
Self pity comes easy then. Automatically, even.
But that was my second Christmas with grief.

My third Christmas with grief was 4 days ago.
I spent Christmas eve at his parent’s house, with his immediate family and growing parts on his brother’s side.
His mom and I were in high spirits.
We spent the day cooking up a feast and she ordered a special riesling
to go with dinner and she even baked a pie from scratch!
The house was decorated with wreaths, the Christmas tree hung with vintage, curated ornaments his parents purchased in different parts of the world,
shelled nuts ready to be cracked near the fireplace…
it was the image of a Scheffler Christmas.
It may have been missing my favorite Scheffler of all, but there was joy
in that house that night,
and it felt good to be able to actually feel a bit of that infamous holiday spirit again.
But no one talked about him.
We didn’t want to remember his death on Christmas eve or day.
The afternoon and evening of Christmas was reserved for a close group of friends, a night spent drinking and eating, surrounded by good people.
I came home around 10:30 pm.
I was starting to feel worn out from all the holly jolly,
I could feel the sadness starting to seep through…

On the 26th, when my third Christmas with grief was supposed to be over,
that’s when the pain hit.
that’s when the loss refused to be pushed aside any longer,
that’s when it took over,
the wave I have come to know so well, knocking me down,
bending my body forwards,
making my bones heavy
and cold.

The next three days were a blur of takeout, hot tub dips, wine and beer, absolutely no exercise and 12 hours of sleep each night.
For dinner one night I ate a 12 inch pizza, 8 chocolate chip cookies,and half a pint of ice-cream.
I was desperately trying to make myself feel better, instinctively, in any small way I knew how.
I couldn’t talk to anyone.
I couldn’t deal with anything.
I felt exhausted and sad and fat and
alone.

Then, on the 29th,
I woke up and noticed I didn’t immediately dread
the fact that I was alive.
I fed myself a healthy breakfast and sang some songs
and worked on the book, and took some pictures
to remind myself that I’m beautiful,
and cleaned out my closet, vacuumed the carpets,
drank a green juice for my afternoon snack,
witnessed a sunset from the hot tub
and thanked the heavens
that the holidays were almost over
and that today,
I was feeling better.
That meant the wave was passing,
the worst had been felt,
there was lightness of being to look forward to again.

It’s not that my third griefmas was easier than the ones prior,
it was just that the days of sadness were fewer than those of happiness
and when grief hit, I knew
it was just another wave I had to ride through.
By then, I guess you could say,
I had a bit of experience
with grieving during the holidays.