seesaw [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – twenty-one].

i think i love you.

but i wouldn’t dare say the words out loud.  wouldn’t dare speak them, or write them to you.

i think i loved you in a past life, too.  your soul feels like the other half of mine, which is impossible – because i am already whole, and yet, not.

knot – that’s what my stomach feels like when i feel you pull away, as i plunder forward, wanting more, always more.  ’til i plant my feet and say, “enough,” and retreat.  and we seesaw again.

wristbands on the bedroom floor.

i picked a concert wristband up off of my bedroom floor, and a memory hit me like a freight train:

two concert wristbands on the floor by his bed, torn from the wrist and lazily thrown aside the night before after the chris young concert at the rodeo.

i asked him why there were two, and he replied he took one off for his sister.  but why were they in his room, if he walked past the trash can? for some reason my gut didn’t believe him, but my heart chose to.

another memory:

months earlier, lying in bed at his place, he tore a concert wristband off his wrist, reached over and tore mine off, too.  he threw them both on the floor, then wrapped his arms around me.  warm and safe, i fell asleep.

***

i have to keep reminding myself he never loved me.  even in the moments i think he did, i have to tell myself that those feelings i had aren’t true.  there was no intention on his part of the relationship.  there was never a chance for a happily-ever-after.  i was just another two year passage of time for him.  those are the feelings i’m left with.

he would tell me i hate him.  i used to say that i didn’t, but i’m not so sure that’s true.  hatred is such a strong, passionate word.  the older i get, the harder it is to produce that emotion.  but when i think of the time i could’ve spent getting to know someone else, someone who intended to be a partner, a best friend, a soul mate…i hate him for taking that from me.

***

in the moments i allow myself to wish and hope, i dream of a man who wants to go to concerts with me.  someone who gets lost in the music like i do.  someone who hears the poetry beyond the lyrics of a pretty song, in the moments of “i love yous” and sunday morning breakfasts with the radio on.  someone who won’t make me afraid to put pen to paper for fear that my pages and posts will fill with angry, hurt, vulnerable words and memories i’d much rather forget.

i’d rather forget you, than hate you.

the parts. [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – nineteen.]

some part of me is conscious of loving you.  in another life, in another world, in the future – i don’t know.  i just know i feel it in my bones.  i think you do, too, but it lies under your insecurity, your fear of the unknown.

some part of me would love nothing more than to never utter your name again.  somehow i feel like it give you power – not over me, but over my heart in a way.  in a way that keeps me from putting all the pieces back together again.

some part of me is far too tired to keep going.  that’s the farthest, deepest part of my self.  the part that is buried under stubbornness, drive, diligence, pride.  the part that lies under wanderlust and innocent wonder.

ghosted [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – eighteen]

she looked him

d e a d

in the eye

and said,

“i sat there in that room,

waiting for you to show up.

i didn’t ask you to.

i couldn’t.

i knew if i did you’d show up,

but you wouldn’t really be there.

you’d be upset i dragged you into it,

as if you weren’t partially to blame.

so, though it killed,

i sat there alone,

waiting for you to want to be there,

for me.  for us.

i can never forget,

never forgive you,

for that day in february,

i sat there,

in a cold, dark room,

not alone, but alone.

and i cried.  big, ugly, quiet tears.

because you never showed up.”

until her quiet settles in [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – seventeen].

you give her half-love and speak in half-truths, never fully showing your hand.

you know this means that you will lose her, to the magic and moonlight, because she is a sweet summer breeze, that first sip of whiskey, warming up your insides and setting your cheeks on fire, the lullaby of a violin in a dark country bar.

she moves too much, is moved too much, but that’s her appeal – because she is a surprise party on-the-go, with eyes that light the night sky and lips that are just for you.

but you hold back – and it stills her.