Thursday 26 April 2012

These dead bones.

I can't find anything that speaks to me these days. Not the sun upon my skin, not the thought of summer fast approaching nor my soon return home. Not even the disappointment of being given up on - being left out in the cold - has sparked any sign of life within. 

Perhaps it's the latter that has hardened me, so I can no longer feel the warning signs of spring the way that I once could. I cannot be moved by the soft and lovely revelations of the Earth. I see them all, and I can recognize how my heart should be melting with the last remains of snow. Still nothing.

All I can think of is the way his heart beat with my head on his chest, and the way it compares to the pounding in my head these days. Life and vivacity now replaced with a droning, empty sound. 
I keep telling myself I need to take the pictures off the wall. I'm leaving soon - I need to pack the memories away. But I can't bring myself to do it. They're the only thing that's bright around this prison cell; holding me to my sanity by not letting the blankness of the room take over.

I guess, if I am afraid of anything, it is that I will be nothing: forever remaining a bare page. I fear that when all the accessories of life are stripped from me, I will be empty handed; becoming only the uniform, off-white walls that lie beneath these photographs. 

It occurs to me that this deep hollowness in me, that even spring cannot seem to shake this year, is only the beginning. And, oh, how that sends shivers up my spine. (And not the kind you gave me.)


Sunday 15 April 2012


When he came to, so I'm told, they asked him what he last remembered.
"She had eyes shaped like almonds."

And they didn't know what to make of it. Of course.
No one ever knew quite what to make of us. 

I don't think we ever had a clue what we were doing
And I don't think either of us knew why we outgrew it when we did.
But one day we didn't fit together, and somehow we both understood there wasn't any going back.
So when I packed my things that evening, you didn't ask. 

And all this time later, I still think that's what I liked the most.
How words were never a necessity for us.
How almond eyes said more to you than what I told you that day.

And either way, you made it.
Even though we failed. 


Thursday 12 April 2012


I held on to you for so long. And when I braved the let go, I did something I didn't quite mean: I released myself, as well. 

All my life, I held on to something - anything - that could act as an anchor, tethering my actions to some core component of who I was. Something steadfast, resolute.

Now I'm afraid that piece of myself has disintegrated, evaporated, dissipated, and I'm left clutching onto a weight pulling be further and further downwards.
This is not to say that you were keeping me stable, and now I'm off the rails. It is not to place blame. It is not  even to say that you were ever good for me.  It is only to say that the two events happened more or less simultaneously - one single act of letting go - and now I am this person, not attached to anyone or anything, moving blindly through the world. 

And I should tell you that this detachment I live with - live by - has been paying off. It has allowed those boys, who came and swiftly left, to go mostly unnoticed; it has allowed me to face the ending of a chapter with little grief; it has allowed me to slip into semi-comatose. Functioning, but not feeling. 

It is both freeing and deadening to admit that there is nothing inside of you to care for the ones who walked away; nothing there to hold you back from walking out yourself. 

I wish my heart was still full -- I thought I could believe, forever.
It seems forever came too soon.