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.

home [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – sixteen].

home is not where you live.

home is where you decompress.  home is a safe haven.  home is four sturdy walls that protect you from the things that go bump in the night while you dream, dreams.

you live outside of your home.  you live on the trails you hike, in the coffee shops where you stop to read or write the next great novel.  you live on family vacations or road trips with your best friend.  you live in beer gardens, or museums, or on bodies of water.

what are you afraid of? [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – fifteen]

what are you afraid of? they asked.

i answered, that i’d fall for a man who makes me feel whole again, tames my wild, and i crumble in on the words that get left unwritten.

because my muse is my chaos; i need it to breathe.

they say if you are feeling blocked, you should free-write for thirty minutes a day.  i know if i did that i’d fill up notebook after notebook with you.  your words, your eyes, the way you’d kiss the top of my head when you hugged me tight, and i can’t.  i can’t write that – it’s like sleeping with the ghost of you.

will i lose my voice, because i can’t stop hearing yours?

the one you’ll never have [excerpts from a book i’ll never write – fourteen].

i want to tell him that i think he’s handsome and a handful and that i’m probably already half-drunk in love with him, but i don’t.

and in this one thing, the fear wins and it consumes me.  because to do so, to lay all my feelings bare, would be to drop a million walls, and wage a losing war, already knowing that he cannot feel the same.