You don’t know they exist. You are unaware that they are on this Earth. You wake up, you brush your teeth, you do whatever it takes to make it through the day, you lay in bed and play out fantasies of finally finding the right comeback when somebody is mean to you and the like, and then you sleep, and everything starts over again.
Then you meet them. You might know it right then, or you might not, but God, you are in love with them. It’s the little things. You keep checking your phone to see if they have messaged you. You find yourself having to read the same sentence three times because you were too busy wondering if they were thinking about you too. And when you do talk to them, it’s better than it even is in your head and the way they smile sticks your tongue to the top of your mouth. Maybe you’re too scared to hold eye contact for too long because they might see how you’re feeling, but looking away makes you feel weak and when the blush creeps up your neck onto your cheeks, it’s too warm and uncomfortable and you wish you had just kept looking at them instead.
You’re going to kiss them. The first kiss probably won’t be that good. You might both tilt your head to the right and then awkwardly both shift to the left to try to get the angle just perfect. There might be too much saliva involved and you quickly wipe your mouth against your sleeve the second they avert their eyes. Maybe your mouth will be too dry because you are nervous and all you can focus on is how quietly they kiss, like this moment between the two of you is a secret. Don’t worry. The first time will not be the best time, and even the best time will not be the best time, because each and every kiss will change as your feelings change. Love is a learning process, and you’re going to be fine.
This is how they’re going to go.
You’re going to open your eyes one day and your phone will have been silent since you plugged it in at night. You are going to roll over and realize that everywhere you are not laying feels like the cool side of the pillow. You’re going to shower alone for the first time in months. You forgot how much work it is to wash your hair. When you go on drives, you realize how bad you are at directions and finding where you are supposed to go. It’s the little things. Their laugh, that you thought was so funny and unique when you heard is, is suddenly the loudest noise at any crowded event you go to. It’s never going to be them, so stop straining your neck. You’re going to stop comparing their heart to the flowers you pass on your way to work in your head and you won’t even realize it. You are going stop waiting up until you are too tired to keep your eyes open. Love is a learning process. You’re going to be fine.
As much as I let something go,
it never really leaves me.
I want to believe I’m moving on
but I found myself sitting in the
shower again thinking that I
I can wash my hands thirty
times a day and still find dirt
under my fingernails.
I wonder why I can never take my own advice. How I can look at people like the sun shines out of them and then look at myself and wonder how I can hold so many storm clouds in my fists. The most terrifying thing about unhappiness is when it becomes an old friend. You hear it knock and you just let it in. I’m trying to think of these moods as old clothes these days. One day I’ll grow out of it. One day it won’t be mine anymore. One day I’ll look in the mirror and wonder how that could have even fit who I was once upon a time. But you can’t wait for that day to come like you’re sitting at the train station with your bags packed, ready to go as soon as it pulls up. Its like walking the same distance the train would go with the bags on your shoulders until you gain the strength to realize they aren’t heavy anymore.
It’s okay that you’re not in love with me. I know I’m a lot of work. I know I’m a handful. I know I need more than you want to give. One day, it’s not going to seem like a twelve-hour shift. One day, your hands are never going to be full. One day, you will keep digging down inside yourself to give more, and more, and more. It’s okay if it won’t be with me. Because you will be so happy.
Maybe it’s the time or the place or just us. The lack of communication or lack of trust. Maybe it’s just life throwing love under the bus. Maybe it’s just not now or not soon or not ever. Maybe two people aren’t meant to end up together. Maybe it’s not enough to just sleep with your sweater. Maybe it’s the distance or the longing or the lust. It could be anything but I think it’s just us.
MAYBE TWO PEOPLE AREN’T MEANT TO END UP TOGETHER (k.p.k)
I miss who I was before I met you. Every time I napped in your arms I left a part of my heart next to your lips on the pillow. Every time I woke up next to you I gave a part of my soul to the sunshine across your cheeks. Trying to remember who I was before you ever came into my life is trying to crawl into the skin of a stranger on the street, is trying to break into a home that is not my own to steal their belongings, is trying to become best friends with a person I have long since stopped talking to. I miss the person I was before I ever held your hands against my throat. I miss the person I was before I ever let your pulse beat against the scars on my body. I miss the person who never met you - because they would never have to miss you like I do.
I was put together one lazy Sunday afternoon
by two flawed human beings that swore
they loved each other so hard that their
marriage bent under the tension. There
was twenty years of life between them
but he promised her he would never call
her baby girl because she was a woman
and he would treat her like one.
I was thrown together twelve years later
in December, the day he pressed his
trembling lips against mine for the first time.
The snow fell on my eyelashes and melted
and I wondered if maybe I was just crying
because I wasn’t ready for this. My mouth
burned for the next three hours and I
swore it was frostbite. We still talk
but I think he’s forgotten who he used to be,
all teeth and broad shoulders and
wanting to impress his parents, as he
sits in his basement and calls me.
“Want to come over?” He asks,
his trembling lips against the phone,
and maybe he was crying because
he wasn’t ready for this.
I tried to pick myself up another four years
later when I felt the pieces of me unravelling
from years of being hot-glued into place,
all art-class and self-doubt and failed therapy.
It was so good to laugh each time I saw
which piece hit the floor next, wondering
who I was shedding this time.
“You broke my fucking heart,” she said,
sitting in my lap, her hair tickling my chin
as she shook and shook and shook.
“You’re my best friend and I love you
but you broke my fucking heart.”
And I wonder if this was what life
consisted of. Falling in love like
you were roaring down a highway,
all speed and lights and euphoria,
then falling out of love like a
I was melted together in the pot
of everybody I’ve ever touched,
and I was hardened by everybody
I’ve ever left, wondering if
people can still fall in love with statues,
wondering if people even
cared enough to still go to
museums to see them.