one chest heated

There are certain memories that heat your chest like a glass of wine on an empty stomach. I had one of those memories today it was of a summer past full of dark meetings, denim shorts and grape flavored gum. I smiled at the thought of how he did his hair when in fact the affair on a whole was nothing better then stepping in shit. But ah the memories still heat my core.

If my heart still hurts tomorrow at least ill know I’m alive

I wasn’t going to write today, I thought it too soon and too many thoughts were intermingling with the sloshing of the tears but then I came up with the title. I’ll have to admit I had to read around to get some inspiration and there it was hidden in this vast electronic sea of knowledge and nothing, where I spent most of my days and nights until I had found the ultimate distraction, love, excuse me amor for I as close as it got at the end there I still shuddered at the thought of saying those words first. He left today and I thought of that, I had replayed it in my mind so many times that those words would be the last thing I would say to him before he left and his voice became always a phone call away rather then a something I would awake to daily. You’ll have to excuse my ramblings as I did warn I wasn’t going to write today. I’ll brief you now I guess, my throat: dry, lumped; my eyes: wet and stinging but not full of tears; my lips: chapped and utterly lonely; and my heart: creaking within its chambers, pushing at the seams and scars left from so may previous breaks, but not shattering as it is accustomed to, for this ending was far from malicious and the segment on a whole was always more then pleasant. Its funny you know they all move away and here I am left chasing my dreams and picking up the pieces of my heart he didn’t mean to break.

getting back to the writing slowly

It was just a taste of what was to come. I found myself wanting to watch movies that matter, documentaries and things about the world. Things that I don’t think about because I’m caught up in this semi-bilingual love affair. I can only tell him I love him in Spanish and many of his sweet nothings come in the same language... he went out of town this weekend, our second to last weekend and I wonder if ill feel the same way I did his first night away when he begins his trek to the other side of our American universe in the coming weeks. I felt like I should lie in the middle of the floor so the devil could get a better shot with those darts he was throwing at my heart. I was watching Cold Case Files and crying, it was pathetic but still a taste of what was to come. One week away and my mom has promised a day at the spa once he leaves. In the mean time I have to find a place to live which has proven much more difficult then I had thought. I’m also looking to graduate early, enough is enough and I’m ready to go exploring what they call real life. Well at least I think I’m ready.

in hiding

These are the moments that matter most while I am trying not to let them matter at all. Our time is fleeting the months turning to weeks, the weeks to days filled with precious moments of perfect-ness that I am trying to not let matter. He couldn’t tell me but I heard the final date as he made plans with a drunken friend over the phone. One month, one month from tomorrow and he will move and it will all be over. And thus we have begun the beginning of the end. I couldn’t sleep last night and tried to distract my tearing chest and tearing eyes with meaningless TV. It hardly worked as he slept lightly next to me. I wanted to crawl into him and hide there so the end couldn’t come, so I wouldn’t have to think about it. We never got to say I love you, even though I dreamt of it, but now its too late, outside of dreams it would be stupid to start that now just to end it within weeks. And so we continue to disguise our love with like, with lust, as to not become more attached then we already are, which would be hard to do as we spend every possible moment together. Part of me says to run away now, prepare myself for the loss by beginning it now but even as I write this there is a welling in my eyes, in my heart that keeps me going back for more maddening disguised love. Maybe when all this is over I can get back to the writing.

surrounded by stories, surreal and sublime

I’ve gotten to this place where I feel most alone in small groups and lying in bed with him, paining for him to wake up, staring at him, questioning my place in the world. There is a giant vat of emptiness in my chest, a cylinder of translucent nothingness that can momentarily be filled by kisses or whipped topping but so easily is completely empty, resounding with echoes. The curliness of my handwriting seems to change daily similarly to the ideas of my future. It’s too much to question future at this time in my mind and yet it’s the only question I am asked daily. So I’ll put on some pink sparkly eye shadow and hide behind Minnie Mouse sized eyelashes so no one but strangers can see how deep it has all become. I wanted my hair to look like that of a pixie and yet my thighs would never fit beneath her delicately jagged skirt. Maybe I am living in renaissance fairly tales for the only thing that makes sense is running away to Paris. To hide among pastries and stripes, to sit under the Eiffel tower in the hot summer sun waiting on brief rain clouds. I want to wake up in satin hotel sheets, in all my loneliness, only to glide out onto a terrace to be surrounded by words I may never know the meaning of. Instead I make him tell me bedtime stories.