long legs stretched out next to my short ones,
skin brushing skin,
your body heat making my blood hum.
I think about glancing over my shoulder at you,
your eyes smiling back at mine,
your strong hand reaching out to brush my crazy hair away from my face.
I turn my head--
I see no one behind foolish tears.
I think back to that first date, the way I wanted to reach across the table and put my hands on either side of your face.
And I did.
Your smile filled my palms, overflowing past my fingertips,
spilling out, down my arms, onto the table,
spreading across to my face.
Your breath on the edge of my hand became the rhythm of my heart.
Sometimes I wonder if it still is.
Time stands still as it breezes by,
leaving me on this couch,
alone with my anger
and disappointment
and that shitty word used to describe your path and your words and that wool pulled over my eyes:
"inaction".
I fall asleep trying to write out the tangle of heartache smothering my words.
I awaken with my chin on my collarbone,
a sore spot in my neck, my pen on the floor, a blank journal page in my lap,
the TV dark.
The clock reads 2:57 am.
Again.
I used to hold my breath when you fell asleep, pushing my ear to your chest,
counting your heartbeats.
I used to believe that the weight of words would carry me into your arms,
and keep me in your life.
I wait to hear your voice again.
I belittle myself for waiting,
for wishing,
for wanting.
I curse my silly heart,
and my smart mind.
I sleep and drink and read and watch terrible TV on mute,
but I still know what month it is, how many days have gone by
since I last felt the sincere giddiness of sure love
when you showed up at my door
with an honest heart and an open smile
and truth.
I avoid babies
and weddings
and our favorite place to get over-served.
I force myself to
forget
every
fucking
day
the
feeling
of
fullness
and
TRUE
LOVE
I
felt.
I remind myself that
the lie wasn't mine,
that the inaction wasn't my decision,
that the
frozen
paused
fear
wasn't about
ME.
It wasn't about me.
The fire within my gut
screams louder than I wish to admit--
Why wasn't it about me?
Why wasn't I enough?
I will smother all of this,
and finish my book,
and watch the NBA playoffs alone,
and go out with friends,
sipping tequila-- "chilled & dressed"
and plan weekends and vacations and
any dream I have had
except for the one
where
you
and
I
share this life
until we are both wilted and wrinkled,
your warm hand on my thigh,
that sure love passing between
your eyes
and
mine.
