Down the shady, sunlit corridors; the dusty aisles; hours spent stitching the tiny tears in me back together. Such fine needlework, you can barely see the craftsman's hand. I'm sorry I can't give you a why. I have one, but it's not for you.
Missing you is getting easier. I only thought about you 57 times today (I know because I kept a tally on a scrap of paper in my pocket) as opposed to over a hundred times yesterday. If I keep going at this rate, decreasing by almost half each day, I know I'll never get to zero, but by the time you get back I'll hardly miss you at all!
Maybe if it were sunnier I wouldn't be having such a hard time. But since it's cold and wet all I want is to curl up in your arms and hear your heart beating so slow and deep. It's amazing how powerful that one muscle can be... to gather up enough force with one perfectly timed contraction so that it can push all the blood in your body through each tiny capillary, and then bring it back. It's amazing how acutely such a strong thing can be hurt, by as cosmically microscopic an incident as, say, you leaving.
Spring is trying on different coats, hand out the window, one foot in the door, deciding. The sky heats up and the rains come down and it seems that everything is in its right place. However off they were yesterday, however silly the grievance, it comes together for a while and you realize that time is only the ebb and flow of right and wrong. Salvation is the warm body next to you as the wind whips the trees into a frenzy that is fascinating because you are safe, held and anchored, tied to the warmth.
My skin still smells of you despite the scrubbing. You slip between my ribs and kiss me- goosebumps from the inside.
The air felt like spring today, even though it’s still cold. Watching tendrils of steam curl off my shoulders still hot from the bath, cut by the breeze. The skunk was so sweet for something so smelly. It’s not worth being lonely any longer.
I had a dream that the bread was burning in the fireplace. And you had used all that was left in the house to make French toast for me.
I think it was all on account of you reading that letter that was not meant for anyone to see. I know you read the whole thing, please don’t bother telling me you stopped half way. And I know you are only trying to help but please, this can’t be helped.
I don’t think I’ll look at you for the next month an a half.
“So you can fix him? You can fix everything. I know it. Like that time I brought you mother’s necklace in pieces when everyone said it was beyond repair. You fixed it.”
“Well hold on there sweetheart, let me see what’s broken here… Ah! There’s your problem right there: it’s his heart. You can see there’s a fissure right up the middle- leads all the way up to his mind. Jeez you sure did a number on this one! What’d you do, drop him off a building?”
“I… I didn’t mean to… I just wasn’t thinking and I got so angry… I didn’t mean for it to be bad, but he’s just stopped working. But you can fix him can’t you? Can’t you?”
I was thinking of you and I looked out. Saw two people kissing in the rain.
The month is gray fog over the valley and cold rain. It's a quiety time. I'd like nothing more than to curl up close to you because you're always warm.
It's difficult to get used to the turning here, and I'm very sorry for the lack of posts, but I'm starting to settle in. Time is changeable, you know? But I get to see the sun rise over the valley each morning. Nevermind the early wakeup.
I like morning times because they are quiet. Nights are loud and bright with possibility and silver and hope. But mornings are still, as if the world is still remembering how to fill the place with sound. the world is bigger in the mornings- emptier. Nights are close, but in the morning the atmosphere is stretched out and clean. And if you have time to sit and watch it fill up with a cup of coffee while it cools enough for you to gulp down, well then. So much the better.
Today was lemonshine instead of sun and I hung the wash very carefully out to dry. Been polishing the mother-of-pearl, coaxing life back into the finished wood, can’t let beautiful things die in dust. These days the wind blows harder, pulling and tugging with scents from days half dreamt, half remembered. My heart pushes with it, shh shh a little longer now dear, have to still it just a little longer. Must remember to tie down the shutters when its time to leave, can’t have things knocking about while I’m gone
Spring is settling down at last, driven into the ground with the weight of the air and the heaviness of scent. Graduation was a beautiful affair and I find myself grown. When did that happen I wonder? My cap and tassel now hang with the construction paper star they gave us upon graduation from elementary school. Shall I show you what's been happening?
I graduated
And had friends over for food afterward
Made a box out of a book
Made some friends
Hung the laundry out to dry
And took a leaf out of Siobhan's book playing with pearls and my camera
So the sun still burns and turns the Earth and there is no way of slowing the march but we dance on the way and though the sights flash by we smile and breathe in memory so that the next time it comes around we'll know what happiness smells like.
Thank you for bearing with me these past weeks, I promise to be back with more interesting things to say
Love
I'm so sorry I haven't posted for a while and probably won't for a bit- the days are getting longer but as the sun heats the Earth it spins the world faster it seems... Graduation is coming up and I'm scrambling, finishing reports and a single thesis, trying to find words that mean something and arrange them in an original pattern but they keep skittering off across the floor. Must tie them down one day... just another task to add to the growing list.
I'll be back as soon as possible and back in my right mind once a proper amount of sleep has combed everything back into place, but for now, I'll leave you with some pictures that have been on my mind, a lot of love, and this beautiful song
Summer brings heat and rain and love. Long car rides windows down, the smell of salt in the air as we follow the path of the setting sun, speeding because we can't keep the joy in one spot. The air is fresh-washed, scrubbed clean by the downpour, sparkling clean for the sun and almost electric; it tingles when I breathe it into my lungs
This weekend was fleeting moments with old friends and realizing that the scariest thing of all is that we're growing up. Realizing that the tomorrow which seemed so far away when we dreamed as children has finally gotten here. We have become our dreams
Last night was glitter but not gold, but the air was warm and heavy with a smell from the tip of a memory that you could almost place
You had to keep an eye on the clock because it was feeling mischievous tonight: if you looked away it would skip ahead minutes and hours in the space of a single glance
With a toss of the head we said hang the consequences and the sun did indeed rise again this morning, imagine that...
I see my house clearly in my mind.
The weathered furniture rescued from flea markets, given love and a new coat of paint
Mirrors and shelves and shelves and shelves of books, bits of driftwood and old pictures- bottles found and filled with the tiniest shards of smooth sea glass
Clocks and papers and shells and dried flowers in vases- a perfume that smells like home and the salt air
And white curtains that catch the wind and dance for joy of movement
And my room: with the window and the desk and the chair so certain, I know already I know. The bright light and the fall of the pen and the remains of breakfast in the corner. Both clutter and space and full, soft white light. And the birds call outside my open window, my beautiful paint-peeling window.
My house visits me in waking dreams- does yours?
We tried to run again, but sleep got wise to our tricks and she caught up with us this time.
Still, it was without resent that we went to her arms, slightly abashed, like children caught hiding from their bath.
Now in the grey morning she gentles us with a warm breeze and muted skies
I think the world wants me to be in love- the boy with waves in his eyes and summer in his curls tastes of blueberries and lighthouse floors, letters tucked away to be read generations from now and rocking chairs with stories in the sanded grain.
The leaves are coming back you know. A greener green than before. Winter was worth the wait.
Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.
