Every day in Paris was baguettes and eclaires
Quays and musees
Steps and stairs and promenades plantees
We learned words and whispers and how to live in the moment
Gulping up movies and operas and photographs
Eating memories three meals a day
Crossing off dreams on a never-ending list with a four-month lifespan
Returning to the future was completely unfamiliar —
Never before had I truly let the present envelop me so.
After it was over, I cried.
I sat, crouched on top of the closed toilet, muffling my gasps for breath in my hands.
A mascara-laden tear dropped to the floor.
I noticed it the next day —
It had dried into a gray, murky dot, a stark contrast to the ivory floor — A
Good reminder.
I don’t want to believe that I meant so little to you that you could just brush me aside like you’ve done
Leave the pieces of me scattered, strewn about, stepping over and around them but never really seeing
That all I was doing was asking for help from someone who always said they cared
Searching for the part of you with enough compassion to help me put my pieces back together.
Instead I think you’re the only one who was put back together, and now another piece of me is gone
A piece that will always wonder if what I gave to you was worth it for what I got in return
A moment in time that, when I really think about it, could have all just been pretend.
I know one day I’ll find my map and follow it, true
But now I know my map won’t lead to you.
I never told anyone I loved you.
I ran to you, craved your arms around me, brightened up at your smile.
But I never asked for help —
Deciphering your signals
Interpreting your moves.
If I don’t tell, it won’t hurt, I thought
As long as no one else knows, I don’t have to admit it to myself.
But now, when I miss you, when you’re so long gone
That the memory of your voice is only a whisper
I can’t tell anyone how my insides are being torn apart
Or how much I want to be happy for you. I can’t tell anyone
I need someone on my side.
It’s selfish to say it now. You’ll never hear it. No one will be happy for us. Just a weight lifted off my chest.
But for what it’s worth — I
Loved you.
Shaking off winter’s cobwebs, I realize
I’ve missed you.
More than I was able to admit to myself
When the skies were gray and the streets dusted with snow.
More than I wanted anyone to know
While I was tossing my hair and twirling my hips.
Even more than I let on in moments of transparency, of shivering.
Spring’s shaved legs, rosy blossoms, puckered lips
Are shoveling out some space for Hope.
The possibilities are endless.
“I know you are doing well, you don’t know how not to be vibrant.”
So,
I was tryin’ to say…
When I mumbled something about
“Looking the part”
That you were someone
For a moment to
Whom I would have
Gone out of my way
To say “hey”.
That’s all,
And I hope you
Accept the compliment
And smile back at the world.
No more, no less.
- D. Rhodes
Tick.
Rolling around in filthy sheets and loving arms
Laughing til it hurts
Pushing hair out of my eyes and your mouth,
Your mouth.
Tock.
The bed grows cold.
Lost, hungry, scared of the nothingness that comes next
And how long it will last this time.
Outside my Rapunzel’s tower,
Waiting for a sign she still loves me.
He uses lines and charms his way around dark corners
and he was smooth and he was cool and his fingers felt like fire.
He plays and he boasts and he’s arrogant
and he was smooth and he was cool and his fingers felt like fire.
I remember that feeling too well —
Arms clinging to a warm body,
Soon to be a ghost.
Throat clenching around a lump, unswallowable,
Choking with each gasping breath.
Trying to form words of nonchalant encouragement,
But failing, flailing,
Drowning in silent tears.
A starving hunger settles in,
The constant wanting of a love of goodbyes,
A love where the fairytale was merely that —
The stuff of dreams, and once-upon-a-time fantasies.
Were it that easy, I would go back,
And save myself the heartbreak of a thousand see you soons.
I don’t know you, but I wish I could tell you —
It doesn’t get any easier.
“When we pulverize words, what is left is neither mere noise nor arbitrary, pure elements, but still other words, reflection of an invisible yet indelible representation: this is the myth in which we now transcribe the most obscure and real powers of language.”
“Every woman has her little secret”
—or should, at least.
Would that I could stand so aloof, so mysterious,
Leaving so much to the imagination.
Instead, every spark, every lightbulb of a thought
Flickers across my face
In disgust or pleasure or fear or pride.
Sometimes I think I’m not just wearing my heart on my sleeve, but my heart is screaming into a megaphone.
5
