Silent dinners, home alone bring memories back from long ago upheaval of images that turn my stomach appetite lost by what I once thought irrelevant Half formed memories of homecoming dances getting shitfaced and sharing cigarettes after sunset finally contextualizing the confusion that came after shattered pieces suddenly coming together Nervous hesitation and not quite understanding never even considering that I was not to blame angry at only myself for consenting to the circumstances unable to account for the way I collapsed inward, the way I cried Surprised by my swift spiral into suffering not grasping what occurred for over a decade friends that were worried probably figured it out first I'd never questioned for a moment that it was my fault Insight gained through the eyes of a younger generation compassion found secondhand for who I used to be the saddest part is knowing how long I carried secret shame stuffed down so deeply that I couldn't see it I got drunk, we were on a date, I didn't say no loud enough boys are just like this, I should have known better part of me still feels unworthy of acknowledging I didn't deserve that
memories
I Still Love You More
I still love your memory more than anything real all my affection is eaten up by a ghost Compulsory comparison everyone else comes up short and I'm left here craving what can never be I still love these memories more than what is offered to me I don't think anything else will ever be enough Not even who you are today can soothe this aching shadow that obscures everything else inside of me
Stirring
Thick silence between raindrops the empty ache inside a soul starts to feel like hunger pangs the dry crack of patched lips after a long drought The body learns to numb sensations that have so long stayed untended like a constant shrill sound that will eventually fade into the background pain can for a while be forgotten Soft cascade into feeling nothing is suddenly interrupted with the spring a stirring starts to awaken old memories the restless internal insistence to return to the whispering woods
Paradise Lost
It takes so long now to turn back the pages to the time filled with most treasured memories afraid to stop flipping back to them in case they fade afraid to tarnish their edges too much with tears and tender touches from oily fingertips Current joy is caught up and compared to the fiercest feelings of first experiences forever falling short of what I'm hoping to find can I never recapture that electric current of overwhelming raw emotion? Adolescent chemicals cannot be the only reason for the deep, searing pleasures of the past I'm unable to accept the possibility that the container of my truest happiness has already been capped off How tiresome it is to live a life through tiny sips from seasons long since passed unreasonable to hope that they won't run dry that stale taste begins to set in even now as I pull from that deep well each day I only pray that there is a rain still coming to quench this burning thirst in my soul fresh liquid delight to fill up my container something to replace those precious days that now feel like they happened to someone else
Terminally Yours
Missing you is a chronic illness an ongoing inflammation of the heart it comes and goes in sudden flareups then subsides back into remission Regular checkups have become routine monitoring my emotion for warning signs self screening for the sharp pain of longing trying to stay mindful when it overtakes me Some days it feels like I'm finally better probing into those tender places doesn't hurt at all but then for some reason I start to ache again and all the stiches inside my heart are unsown An ocean of grief opens up inside me bright, blood-red waters fill my lungs with the violent crashing waves of all that once was This condition of loving you cannot be cured I think I'll always carry it with me I think I like the days with pain they make me feel close to you again
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-eight years spent in the same place that felt like a prison when I was sixteen It once seemed like failure not escaping to surroundings exciting and unfamiliar somewhere far away But now I see it as a blessing to grow where you are planted to traverse the same worn paths through friendly trees in summer To sit upon the same faithful earth that holds mementos of my childhood and watch the slow changes in myself reflected back by the whispering hillsides Sharing secrets with the soiled river that has always known me more deeply than anyone could through words alone as it runs alongside my inner life The quiet protection of the thick woods softly urging me onward in time tiny hands searching for fish hook treasures among steep, rocky shores just outside of town The awesome unfurling of a life and a land intertwined the profoundly soothing resonance of a home that's greater than home
House Fire
How can I ever forgive myself for the fire I set in ignorance and intentionally used to burn down the only place that I belong A decade spent sifting through ashes ears still ringing from the roar of the flames a warm home replaced with the unbearable weight of my own mistakes How can I ever trust myself again to hold what is precious to me when all I've ever done is ruin what I love All I can offer is to stand apart and busy my hands by sifting through the charred remains of my sanctuary forever laid solitary and silent How can I bear to move on from these ruins of a life I loved more dearly than myself to commit myself to a waking world that pales in comparison to burnt memories
A Precious Aching
Sometimes my heart strains toward you spreading so thin across the expanse between that it quivers like a tightly strung guitar string sending notes of anguish into all that empty space Reverberation of moth eaten memories stirring up stale dust in a long abandoned room as it echoes off the walls of aching lungs until I'm almost sure I should reach out for you The half formed fantom of a future grips my heart so suddenly in some moments that it feels worth risking anything for even certain humiliation and rejection But then the sharp, pinching recoil always returns to snap me out of my pathetic, forlorn reveries my hand is not worthy of even reaching a frenzy of hope can overcast the wretched truth I have no right to continue pining a don't deserve the bittersweet comfort of these carefully enshrined memories let alone the audacity of asking for more My lot now is to keep languishing moving inevitably away from a future that could have once been mine but was long ago forsaken My selfish heart keeps me from even the respite of one day forgetting pouring warm tears over ice cold memories I will be grateful for this aching
Green Tea Memories
Tea has been a re-occurring theme throughout my tangled life. My mother always preferred drinking tea to coffee. Her nervous nature simply couldn’t handle that much caffeine. Mornings filled with the fragrance of spices and herbs, clinking spoons, and tiny damp disposable bags.
Tea soaked wounds of my first broken heart remind me of moments of reluctant connection. It’s easy to wake up early when you’ve slept for over twenty four hours in the last two days. Dreams can only provide an escape for so long. When even that sanctuary is stolen from you, I learned that peace can be found in the slow ritual of sipping tea before sunrise. The begrudging silence between mother and daughter, the surrender of accepting help from someone you despise. Because you need her, and that hurts in its own strange way.
New love blossoms around a very different tea routine. Evenings after school, every day spent looking forward to this small, private heaven. Boiling water in the microwave and adding too much honey. The laughter we once shared when you finally admitted you couldn’t bear the way my overly sweetened tea made your lips sticky. Flirtatious frustration from the way you used to tease me for blowing on my drink before every sip instead of waiting for it to cool.
The soft haven found beneath the crumbling roof of your mother’s house. Her hovering hospitality of sharing joints with underaged teens, providing refreshments of my first teas made with milk. The strange, yet soothing smoothness of the subtle flavor. Savoring the mouth-watering smells of the best home-cooked dinners I’ve ever had being prepared in the next room.
All these years later, my heart can still rekindle those tender memories involuntarily as I sip my milky matcha. The most delicious ache, a powerful longing for a life that no longer exists. Beautiful lapping waves of private sorrow, never to be seen or shared. How can so much pleasure be found in such pathetic pining? Surely this secret clinging is a sickness, a delusion that corrodes all chance of a future. Even so, even so…
You’re With Me On My Own
Living lattice of spongey spiderwebs stitches supporting the dark, damp earth connecting networks transmitting information between the trees' deeply buried toes breathing in pulsating energy particles that permeate the thick air above quivering conviction of nature intertwined magical mirror image, veins beneath pale skin Sacred assurance that all is not lost the same sun still rises in the east each morning you reside in the red light beneath my eyelids retinas stained with sweet remembrance Everything fades except for this feeling bitter things only taste better as I age including this patient pain, the prize I protect hopeless happiness harbored in secret Silly dreams pluck breath from lonely lungs pathetic mantra of "maybe one day" vindicated by comparison to other laughably unlikely anecdotes The small, sharp pleasure of planning this impossible future fills my cracked cup enough to keep going Besides, we're still connected by that complicated underground lace linked inextricably through shared sunlight eternally sown together with this earth