Each day my smile gets harder to keep track of; it comes and goes when and where it pleases, but it always seems to come back to me. Is it twisted for me to hope that someday you will too? Sorry, your goodbye is a taste my mouth has yet to truly get used to. You made sense, and these days a lot of things don’t, so forgive me for the nights like these when the memories get a little too heavy. I’m trying to write more these days. Part of me feels like it’s what I need to do as a writer. Part of me feels like it’s what I need to do in order to survive. Most days, I can’t tell the difference between survival and putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. What I can say for sure, though, is that you were someone that made me feel like I was truly living. I can only hope I did the same for you.
“You know, it hurts now.
No, not what he did to me, but how I had to go through all of it alone. I am afraid of love, I am afraid of falling in love.”
“Aren’t we all?
We are all afraid of love, but isn’t it love that keeps us going, that heals us, that makes us feel alive. Love hurts, but what is happiness without pain, what is a hello without goodbye, what is sunlight without darkness. It’s all melancholy; this life and the only thing that saves us from it, is, love. Yet, we all are afraid of love. ”
POET: how could you cause me this much pain? why would you want to?
BEE: I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you just got in the way. you came too close to my jacket and I panicked. everything I touch starts to bloom: flower or bruise, it’s your choice, I can’t tell the difference. don’t you see these colors littering my body? my skin has only ever been a warning sign screaming at the world to stay away.
POET: I’ve never paid attention to things like that. I love quickly and regardless of history. I see a red flag and I rip it to shreds. I read emergency plans and I abandon their language. I pick poison berries and I swallow them whole. this is always how it’s been, I don’t know how to be any other way. safety is a word I stopped using after I found out that our last kiss was our last kiss. wait, sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. ignore that last sentence.
BEE: I…see. well, I didn’t mean to take advantage of your heart, I didn’t realize you would be so soft.
POET: they never do. have you been to the ocean?
BEE: a long time ago.
POET: when I was younger I went to a beach in south carolina, early in the morning before the seagulls began to beg for sustenance. I was alone, and I didn’t have a swimsuit but the water was so flat, and I needed to get closer to the sky, so I ran out up to my waist wearing all of my clothes and just stared at the threshold between shades of blue and shades of oblivion and I waited. I don’t know what for, but I waited, and I think that what I was waiting for must have arrived because when I finally turned back towards the sand I felt better. like I was naked except I wasn’t, I had clothes heavy with salt draped over my frame, but I could’ve been stripped to my bones for all that I knew. I was there, and I was alive, and it happened at a time when that feeling would’ve meant something.
BEE: why are you telling me this?
POET: I just wanted someone to know that I was happy, once. two lifetimes ago I let souls born of typhoon and earth see me vulnerable and thirsty and the act of doing so didn’t bring me to my knees. I was whole, once.
BEE: you’re still whole, it seems like you’ve just changed your parameters.
BEE: look, I’m sorry I stung you. I really am. I feel bad. it won’t happen again.
POET: it’s okay, I’m used to it. everything I’ve ever gotten close to has scarred me then vanished. ache and abandon, burn and bury. I could write a new testament about the memories I’ve had to plan funerals for.
BEE: maybe you should stop getting close to things.
Monroe was rather insecure about the limited education he had while growing up, he used to place apostrophes in words if he didn’t know how to spell it and used to write letters several times over before sending them.