passing through

I heard bullets leave particles as they pass through fabric. They tend to cling for decades or more. The night you left, you shot through fabric on the clothesline with a force that left me breathless. I had been waiting for months for you to come back for me. It rained and parched and bellowed in all that time.

Bracing for impact. Your words rolled off the edge nonstop until you were empty and I was full. Full of questions I didn’t dare ask. Full of questions I know I should have asked. I remember silence digging its heels into my spine when everything was being taken from me. I remember because I was on the floor in the dark and I was shaking from all the breaking.

That didn’t stop your leaving. When has it ever? When has an already bleeding body stopped a bullet from cutting through new flesh? When has it stopped a shoot to kill? The particles revolved around my dizzy bones, seeped into my blood, compounded my love and pinned me further to the ground.

I was never meant to be your home. Twelve months of manipulating a tourniquet and changing bandages and I finally understand that I was somewhat of a lingering, a place to lodge, and you were merely passing through.

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We could be lovers

Five minutes ago, I was standing in the shower, hot water splattering on my chest, thinking about how we could never be lovers; because for you, I may be too serious.

But then I thought, maybe we could be lovers because we know each other. Because the first time we met, we were eleven year olds who barely knew a thing about anything, thrown into a world we did not know how to navigate. In this world, our clothes hung on our bodies for dear life because we got skinnier by the month. Because home felt farther than it was.

We could be lovers because we have watched each other out grow versions of ourselves. We have shed old skin, grown new ones and repaired broken skin we still needed. We have loved and not-loved but returned to loving again and again. We have fought. I have called you names. I have promised not to tell you anything ever again but you are still my safe place. I still tell you things because you know me. You accept me. You make it all feel small. Fixable.

Thursday night was our make up night. Bible study from 7pm to 9pm. Each time we fought, we could never get past a Thursday without relearning forgiveness. We had two hours to lift the rug and make sense of the broken pieces beneath it. I saved you a seat next to mine or you saved me one and we would sit there still a bit angry, pretending to listen while the tension between us rose like a leaf in the wind. We sat there with our throats dry and our hearts loud in our ears waiting for the first words to arrive. I cannot remember who was braver of the two of us but we walked out the hall feeling like our worlds rhymed again.

We have moved to a new continent yet we still love in the most infrequent ways. In three day old text messages and un-returned phone calls and face timing every six months. We share old jokes, old pictures, I love yous that we really mean and I miss yous that are always felt.

We are now twenty-two year olds. We talk about healthy eating, social justice, the legitimacy of christianity . We laugh (a lot). We still tell each other things we wouldn’t tell other people. Beneath the laughter, we are stripped down versions of ourselves. We share our biggest struggles; the losing and finding ourselves in cycles. We have created a dynamic that would drive normal people insane but for us, it works.

I talk about how I was such a bitch in junior high. You say “not really” a softer version of “yes really”. We call each other on nights we cannot breathe, on days it feels like the world is closing in on us and we are our last chance for air.

We could be lovers because five years ago, I watched your father drive off with you in the front seat and I thought I would miss you forever. In February, we stood in middle of a busy mall as though it hadn’t been five years. As if it had only been a week. But you could tell, couldn’t you? that we had changed, physically and in all other ways. That time had carried us through winter and fall.

We are different. You are different and yet our love feels the same – even stronger, even better. Effortless. It’s what I love most about it. There is your voice in my head, your face in a smile, your square shaped nails with its white tips and there is your handwriting, the one you changed to an uglier one in js2 because it meant you were older. I am your biggest “you-are-going-to-do-wonderful-things” and you are mine and perhaps I would be different without you.

We could be lovers but we shouldn’t be. Because at least we have each other to run to if our lovers crack us open. If our lovers leave us bleeding. We could be lovers but there is a method to us and it will not survive the heartbreak of a failed us. We could be lovers but there is not a thing in the world that compares to the ridiculousness of us; this creation. We could be lovers but I will always be too serious for you.

No revival

We are the ones who love
out of habit. Love,
not because we still feel
its fire but because
there was once a fire.

We are the ones who hold
on to reverie. The ones who
stayed too long. The ones
with alcoves of old kisses and
a fist of crumbly passion.

We are the ones they talk about
when the kids are grown and
the memories begin to sink,
the ones who smell like thirty years before,
the fire that should have never burn out.

Parking lot love

It’s no wonder the parking lot was our favourite place,
We would drive across town to a bookstore or some fancy place,
But we would end up sitting in your car for hours,
Our love was not meant for miles.

I always wondered why we would rather sit in moveable boxes
Than go out with our feet and explore the world with our love,
But now i see that ours was fleeting.
That the thing we felt was not strong enough for the storm outside,
The thing we felt was safest with proximity,
The thing we felt was meant for small, dark spaces like parking lots.

It was love, wasn’t it?
or maybe it just looked like love.
The thing we felt, sitting in the evening air,
Everything within our reach, laughing and teasing,
looked a lot like love. But somehow,
We couldn’t seem to love beyond the parking lot,
so we had to leave everything we felt there.

Losing.

The smallest form of investment
without return will hurt.
It is impossible to put
even little bit of your heart
in something or someone,
and not feel a pang in your chest,
if it fails to thrive.

Losing HURTS.
Don’t believe anyone who says otherwise.

Can i guarantee harvest for your sowing?
No. But i can guarantee two things
there are NO safe investments
and you will grow with every step YOU take.

dear 19-year-old me

You are beautiful.
sometime within this next year,
you maybe forced to question this simple truth,
but regardless of how you feel, you really are beautiful.

You know by now that just like seasons, people come and go,
so wish those who leave well and love those who stay well,
but don’t ever make anyone to stay against their will.

Time flies real fast and it flies first class.
you don’t want to wake up old and gray,
with no memories or achievements to show.
So chase your dreams, every single one of them.

i’m not sure if there’ll be a new social network,
but for now, don’t ever twitfight.
Simply ignore whoever pisses you off and
save yourself the embarrassment.

Be good to people and wish people well.
don’t feel you’re better than anyone else,
because life has been a little more kind to you.

never miss an opportunity to make someone happy.
and happiness will be your special friend.

Work really hard to get extremely good grades,
Surprise yourself every once in a while.
smile at a child, sing in the shower,
and Talk to God every single day.

Dear 19-year old me,
it’s really a pleasure to finally meet you.
laugh a little louder and love a little deeper.
don’t stop writing, i really like it when you write.