the ones that show me how many different ways love&lost can be transcribed.
That moment when you just finished playing a game of pickup basketball and some guy on your team, who you think is a senior, goes up to you and asks, “Are you a grad student?”. Damn my smile wrinkles.
At least when you asked him if he was a senior, it turns out that he’s actually a freshmen. At least you were closer.
Not sure if I should feel good or bad about this.
"Le souvenir est un poète, n’en fais pas un historien.
Memory is a poet, not an historian."
“What do I look for?” she said repeating the question.
“Yeah, what do you look for in a guy,” I said.
Her eyes shifted upwards to one side trying to gather all her thoughts, her head slightly tilted. She wore an open shoulder navy woolen sweater that gave notice to her slender bronze neck, the soft features of her clavicle that seemed to flow up and back down like a gentle rolling wave. Her gaze shifted back to her cup of Americano – she always liked them strong. I stirred my cup with a metal spoon, clinking the porcelain every once in a while. I looked around me, studied the wooden floorboards, wondering what oak it could be and if it was given a nice finish. The hanging dim lights that only featured a naked lightbulb. The place was old school, but minimalistic and homey in its own way. I let out a sigh to fill in the silence.
To the Window Reflecting Sun
my room lies in the dark corridor
of the shadow.
The walls grim,
my desk layered over
with dust, with grievances
from these Wintry months.
My finger tips aches from the cold
my body bent and contorted
from working long nights
under my frugal lamp,
my bedside heater
breathing in and out
letting me sleep.
When I wake it is not from the sun
but from the aching of my knees,
the way they clamor like two hot heads
hitting against each other.
But with you,
when the clock tower strikes four
your light flows
pouring into every grieving corner
that I know each one by name
and by the hours of which I’ve talked with them,
waiting for you.
You touch my walls
giving them a new color
that I had once mistaken for a sad one.
You look over my shoulder
reading my words on lined pages
and you let them shine
placing your warm hand so gently
on the back of my neck.
As you kiss me with newfound hope,
this new vitality that I can feel
what I’ve forgotten
from the days you decided
to leave this Earth
But you’ve come back and now
each morning I do not wake up
with a jitter of my knees,
or the greying of
my tinted eyes that have
slowly begun to show their old hazel.
I wake up only to your kiss,
a warm invitation to all the days
that have passed as I was in the shadow
without having forgotten you.
I slowly begin to relearn you -
my sun, my light, my warmth.
There is not a day where her name does not make it past the filter of my consciousness, snapping at my neurons to retrieve old thoughts, old images that I have placed in safe storage in my head. I only keep them because I am a hoarder, and if one were to know a hoarder’s greatest weakness it is that he will never find the means to let things go. Old photos found on laptops, old letters found in the crevices of journals, old post-its sitting in your wallet - when they ask you for cash, you ask if you can pay with credit because it was easier than being reminded of her.
I rolled my sleeves up, dressed in a maroon houndstooth button up and navy cropped pants with rugged desert boots, I stood leaning on the fence watching the great Oasis lake thaw in front of me. The wind that swept through the air was not one that was biting, but one that slipped through the spaces between my buttons tickling my stomach up to my torso that felt inviting. The sun behind me, the warm waves falling on me, on my cracked and dry skin from the layers of cold and loneliness that have fallen on me in the last passing months. But, my back likes the feel of an enveloping warm, thawing the layers of Winter that have thrown me in such depression. My neck exposed, I could feel a warm hand being placed on me, a feeling that I haven’t felt since the thought of her had put me in a never-ending recollection of memories that did not end in the dark confines of my eighteenth floor room.
From afar, I could see patches of gray and a dark navy, signs of the ice giving into to a new day that will only follow many more days like these. The ice was breaking, thawing so quickly that the cracked veins spread and spread throughout the Oasis that soon it would all be gone.
The flock of seagulls standing near a spout on the southend that shot a burst of flowing water as tall as the trees along the park, began to all simultaneously jump into the air, and in one chaotic moment to next, a sea of white formed as they circled around the lake. I listened to them, watched them intently. They were not afraid of the cold anymore for those times had already past.
Signs of spring only the animals knew best, and with their flight and their return, I, too, was ready for what had already pass.
to dear friend
"I really like you’re writing. There’s just something about it that I like," he said.
"I mean, you could write just as well," I said, trying to slide away from acknowledging his compliment. "I like to think everyone can write well in a way that’s personally their own."
Sitting by the windows in a hip cafe that seemed to have opened without having done any renovation, keeping the old tacky wallpaper and factory-esque decorations of metal tables and wooden chairs, the windows reflected the passing of lights of taxis and cars moving about on a Saturday night in the city.
I like to think that most of my writing comes from the obsession of thoughts that I have everyday. For example, I write about loneliness and this need for solidarity which I can write extensively about because that’s just what I think so much about. But in the end, writing remains an outlet. I am afraid what it would be like when I don’t feel the need to express these things anymore - when in a sense I get over my infatuation for them. I suppose other things will fill in, but for now I hope to keep writing as much and as unfiltered as I can.
It’s going to be a shitty first draft, but only first drafts can turn into something more.
There is not a day where your name does not spill into my thoughts, infecting my perspective and clogging my train of thought for moments that are hold to swallow. Yet, each day the definitions of you, your body, your face, your vitality slowly fades. They start to cross over, trying to fit the pieces back in where the gaps are, but the images are slowly chipping away. But, I don’t let them go by. I write them - all, in words, in print, in black ink that solidifies your being. Even when your face becomes unrecognizable, you still live on in my biased words, my personal perspective, my recounting of moments we spent together. And each time, I can go back to them, and I obsess over them. I keep doing it and I’m not ashamed.
I’m only ashamed that I wish you lived on outside of my words, crossing back into my reality again. A reality that you were so real, your fingers always cold to the touch, your arms tender and slim, your voice still adolescent but becoming mature at the same time. I wish for your words to come back to me more than anything. I don’t wish for kisses or hugs or love that romantics wish for. All I wish for is your words again, your words - the thing that I fell in love with in the beginning and that I no longer look at anymore.
You are a name away, and when I press enter, all of you will spill out before me and I will read all of it voraciously, indulge myself in your sweet sweet words because they will remind me of those early summer days when I was still seventeen and I didn’t know what writing could do to someone, what writing could do to me. It was you, always you. But I don’t look for you even when I know where you hide. I would cry endlessly knowing the words you’ve said since our passing.
How funny the things we fall in love with.
Like loose change I hold pieces of you everywhere. In back pockets of my favorite olive pants, in the backs of cluttered drawers, at the bottom of laundry baskets, in the crevice hidden between the cushions, I find reasons to be reminded of you. Each one hold different value - sometimes I find a penny’s worth of a post-it you wrote to me when I lost my cat, or dime’s worth of letters that seem to be wrinkled, scattered, and all over the place. But it’s not your fault though, that I can’t seem to stuff all of you into a piggy jar and let it sit for the years of old memories and forgetfulness to come and take over. I was never good at letting go. I can still imagine the things you would say to me, the way you would’ve reacted when I told you I got into the writing program, the way you would’ve told me to go no matter what the situation was, the way your letters would come in every five days. But that’s what silence does. When you realize when how quiet your phone can be, that’s when you know what silence is and all the things you took for granted.
I want to remember the smell of your sheets, how they smelled like fresh laundry every time and the prints of little dogs on them. I want to look through our pictures with you on your phone and tell you which ones you should keep, which ones caught me at a bad angle with my smile wrinkles, and which ones made me fall in love with you ever more. I want to tell you about the little bakery on Wyeth, how Bed-Stuy is quiet, suburban like back home. I wish I could tell you the baristas dressed in blue factory onesis and 70s bandanas, and how quaint and homey the place was. I wish I could’ve shown you their little home baked goods. I wish I could’ve shown you all the little things that have only grown so small that I can’t find them anymore.
You have a soft voice, and I’m listening to it all over again. I’m thinking about what it would be like to see your face and match your voice, the two overlapping and creating this definite thing that I can hear and see. I like being obsessed with you. It helps me keep my mind off other things. Would you play in front of me if I asked you to? There is a part of me that wants to know what it would be like to sit in front of you, to talk to you, to learn you, to hold your hand. It’s strange to think like this when you’ve never met the person and you’ve never talked to them. But all I want to do is see you so I can know what you’re like.