when people ask me if i can dance or sing i say i dont know rhythm but lately ive found my own cadence and its interesting: how far you go when you don’t realize you’re moving
i was twelve when you died
but sixteen when you were gone
i woke up and stopped looking for you in the house you made a home. i woke up and no longer had to remind myself you weren’t around. i woke up and your existence was based solely on your absence
you stayed my favorite person but became my favorite subject. everything that was because of you was suddenly for you; every part of me transformed into reminders that half of my anything was created from all of your everything
its christmas soon and i remember evergreen mixed with your jaipur homme. i remember money greens and marlboro reds; i remember you lifting me to put the angel on the tree and a star on the next
i remember staying up past midnight on every eve you worked; because other children needed a santa but no fiction could be better to me than a reality of you with a day off
i can’t remember the gifts you gave me–just the way i never wanted for anything more but to fall asleep next to you during chow yun fat movies; chastising mom in the kitchen and corralling the boys upstairs
i was five when i asked if it was me that made you work so hard. if i could trade all the toys and stuffed animals for more days off. i was twelve when i thought life was about luxury. thirteen when everything i wanted became everything i used to have. twenty-one; and the thought of you has still been my last one every night.
i woke up and all of our routines became stories
i woke up and all of our traditions became memories
i woke up and the universe found the only way to keep you
from the christmases you promised me were always ours
i miss the drives in your car: the books in my hand, the taste of you left on my lips–reading you stories inbetween kisses, tracing your hands with my fingertips–bookmarking pages with leftover twenty dollar bills and lipstick tubes
stolen glances at stop signs
wondering when it was that you actually became mine
i miss the sound of the engine; the feel of tarmac beneath the ground you moved, the poems leftover on my tongue while i traced the parts of you you told me you didn’t understand how to love
i miss the way my laughter slid inside of yours: the way my smile followed your name–the way you transcribed your childhood through your fingertips because you were too afraid of your lips
i miss the me that forged from you mixed with mine
i wonder what you think of those nights that simmered into mornings; the days that passed like the way you looked at me when i didn’t
you tell me you love me now like i loved you then
but fairytales don’t last and part of me wonders what part of this was ever happy if i never asked for an after
part of growing older means the people you love become people you loved
part of growing older means eventually everyone who left are the ones you forgot you asked to leave
part of growing older means being gracious enough to thank you for the memories
but experienced enough to not make the same mistake
I wonder what it would be like to be allowed to feel beautiful.
I wonder what it would be like to be allowed to not feign humility; to not have to believe that we are not wonderful enough to love ourselves.
I wonder what it would be like to feel lovely, and to be allowed to have confidence in how I am loved by the one who matters.
It seems as if everyone’s ideal of me is in me not being me: twenty pounds lighter, four inches longer–curvier with less in the cheeks, more definition of the jaw. It seems as if everyone’s ideal of me was the frail, lithe girl that existed within the confines of her own depression. The me that fought to eat because I fought to understand why I would want to sustain an existence I did not want; a body I no longer wished to house.
It seems as if everyone’s ideal of me turned into my ideal of me; when all I had ever wanted in my life was just to be happy. To be kind. To be understanding. To want to live.
I think the reality is that I would rather be beautiful in the heart and healthy in the soul. To allow myself to no longer worry about if I was beautiful to anyone else except me.
I think the reality is that it’s all unbelievably bullshit: the idea that I am supposed to exist for anyone other than me.
The way you held me the morning after; how you forgot the night before.
I like to pretend that I’m OK–that I’m better now; that what you were was a burn that scabbed and bled but eventually healed.
I can feel the slow palpitations in my heart when someone says a name that sounds like yours.
They remind me of the ones that once echoed into your chest. The ones you used to touch when they surfaced through each of my ribs. The ones that you cultivated in your hands; with your lips–the ones you bred from inside of everything I had once though was mine.
The ones that still belong to you.
So I wonder now: the parts of me that you took; the me that didn’t return.
I’ve been different. Less lovely, less impressive–less in love. More eager, more helpless, more obsessive–more lost.
I remember San Francisco. I remember New York; LA, Miami, but how it’s Toronto, still, that has the you I can’t forget and the me that I could never find.
If I had done nothing wrong, how could we never be right? Which part of me should be thrown away? Which part of me made everything of me worth forgetting?
I want to tell you there’s been nobody after you. Nobody that mattered. Nobody that felt significant. Nobody that reminds me of the 5am through your eyes. The 6am through your lakeside balcony.
The 7am me in your mouth.
Nobody that feels like you at night
and smells of me in the morning.
Lately all I can see is your face; your name–I can hear your laugh, and everything I do is an echo of something we once did.
I miss you because I didn’t when you were alive, and I regret that more than anything because now I look around and there’s this feeling in my heart; a melancholy of my mind that I remember only you could understand. This pretentious, childish ennui of my soul that doesn’t belong but exists. Something that I can’t admit to anyone else because I know it’s undeserving; that we were born too lucky to be sad on our believed misfortunes.
It’s hard for me to write about you. To remember the way you looked at me; to remember the words you wrote to me. To remember how it was all of these that will no longer exist. To remember how it’s all of these that you no longer want.
It’s hard for me to find the right combination of words to describe you. To describe me, when I was with you. My English teacher told me it’s because I have to wait for the blood to dry before the ink will take.
Otherwise it’s messy, emotional. Unfocused. Like us, that night.