I Think Of You, And I Can’t Help But Wonder

I think of you,
and my mind traces back to places
where we’ve walked
hand and hand
as if the creases of our palms knew
one another,
as if the lines foretold our futures
before we knew how to kiss forever
onto one another’s mouths. Continue reading

Even When You’re Not Here, I Still Feel You With Me

I met some men the other night, friends of friends. One of them was patient with me, tender, even with his calloused hands. His thumb and pointer finger pressed softly against mine, guiding my hold an inch lower on the pool stick. “There,” he said, “Like this.”

I could feel the ridges of his fingertips, brittle and brown from the stained wood and ink he worked with. They reminded me of your hands—the ones that can tie knots, can fix leaks in bathroom sinks, can change oil and tires, build shelves, and hold my face gently between palms. Continue reading

I Dreamt Of You (Again)

In this dream, you were different.

This time, you didn’t tell me that you missed me, that you never stopped loving me, that you knew we’d find each other again. Instead, you handed me a note when I walked through your apartment door. An apartment I’ve never been, mind you, but it felt like you, smelled like you, looked exactly how my non-sleepy mind would have imagined it. Continue reading

I Went To The Art Gallery

Because I thought I’d find you there. Find you in every detailed line, each smudge. I thought I’d smell your skin on the page, feel your touch in every eraser shaving still pressed to the parchment. Thought if I could run my fingers over the charcoal, letting the black bleed into my skin, that I would finally have clarity.

But all I saw was that picture. That beautiful girl in swirls of black and grey.
The one who looks nothing like me.
Was it me who was lost all along?

Sometimes I wish I could ask you.
Take us back to when we were happy, unafraid.

But I came here to seek you in the art on the walls, in the pencil, in the face in the picture, unguarded and strong.

Maybe I didn’t come to find you.
Maybe I came to find myself.

What We Carry

Look me in the eyes again. Tell me anything, the summer breeze blowing through those white blinds, the sausage and onion pizza you had for dinner last night, that you’re scared of spiders. I don’t know, exactly, what it is I want to hear. But I know I like the sound of your voice, the way you always grab my chin, make me look you in the eyes. As if this moment, this single, insignificant moment should be celebrated, remembered. So that months later, when you’re gone and I’m driving the highway alone, suitcase in the passenger seat, I remember those blinds, those eyes. And I remember what I think I’ve always known; it is the small moments we carry with us.

I Try My Hardest Not To Think Of You

I wonder what you’re thinking, in moments like today when I’m curled up behind thick blankets and soft pillows, staring out the cool glass window watching my neighbor shovel his walkway. I wonder what its like, in this place you call home, where the sun gets up earlier and stays later, warming the ground’s surface like a piece of brown toast.

I drove my sister to school today. I watched the line of cars move slowly, stuttering in a row, heaters on full blast. Each one of those high schoolers rubbing white fingertips along the edges of steering wheels, dreading finals, and me wishing to trade places and start all over again.

I wonder what you’re thinking, though I know you’re not awake, so I wonder what you’re dreaming. If you’re replaying that moment when we met, cups of beer between us half-emptied and that face we exchanged, a silent half-smirk. I wonder if you’re replaying hours before, when you opened the door to your room, saw it as it should be, untouched, blankets still folded neatly, television on the side table. I wonder if you’re replaying the embraces from family, the cozy smell of stone floor and fabric softener, the cool taste of beer down your throat.

Right now I’m picturing you, last winter when I was afraid of love. The wind was fierce that night, and you, standing at my driver’s side window, pretended it was the wind that made your eyes tear up. But we both knew.

As I lay between warm blankets now, my mouth leaving warm breath circles on the cool glass windowpane, I think about you. I wonder If your heart feels just as heavy as mine, as I watch my neighbor move methodically, shoveling line after line of freshly fallen snow.

Featured Image Credit: Joseph Albanese