Snow In August

There's a cold hallway in my building that leads to the roof.  Dish washer empty, curtains pulled together, I wonder where to hide the key.  That cold hallway will still be there tomorrow morning, but I'll stand in the middle of it until my neighbor's light goes off.

I figure one day I'll have somewhere to be on nights like this.  Maybe you'll invite me to go for Chinese.  Maybe we'll finally go to Moab.  Maybe that carnival will still be open, and maybe your plans will fall through.  Maybe we'll ride the ferris wheel, twice.  And maybe I won't get sick.  But maybe if I do, you'll buy me ice cream to calm my stomach.  And maybe you won't think that's lame.

There's a girl in my building who passes me every Sunday on her way up to the top.  I can hear her calling out into the open sometimes.  "My days are empty, every day."  And I believe it's true.  Because it's our collective truth.  She'll be the framework and I'll be the floor, and he'll be the walls, and you'll be the roof.  We'll be the box, and everything will just be expected.  Cream paint with complementing shades of beige.  Pottery barn furnished.  And a pug.  Christmas will always be on December 25th, and school will always start in August.  Mondays will be long and Fridays will be fast and the living room still needs to be vacuumed, I asked you to do that two weeks ago. And that picture you drew in Preschool has been on the fridge for twenty years because you haven't yet made something better to replace it, not because your mom likes it there.

Maybe it'll snow this August, and they'll cancel school.

Or maybe it'll be just the same as it's always been, and you won't offer to carry my books.

And maybe someday I'll figure out how to open that door at the end of that cold hallway that leads up to the roof.  And I'll find that girl that passes me every Sunday.  And I'll ask her why she hasn't jumped yet.  And she'll say, "I thought you'd never ask."

That's when she jumps.

Quiero Tus Manos En Mis Ojos

Darling, I'm not the same person I was when I awoke this morning.  I don't know what it was, but I no longer want those things I so desperately settled for the night before yesterday.  Instead, I want your chiseled knees bumping into mine underneath the table, and your morning breath.  I want your eye lids to only close halfway when you look at me.  I want your broken fountain pens and your empty journals.  I want your temper tantrums and your bitter comments and your cold cup of tea.  I want your jar of strawberry jam to be my jar of strawberry jam.

Our strawberry jam.

And darling, I'll take your soaking silence over your finger tips any day.

I just want to be able to tell you that your eyes match the mountains and all the uncharted seas.  That the lights on the hillside are all yours to keep, and that the clocks that think they're needed don't count down the time for you.

Darling, you make me wonder why hearts aren't shaped like hearts, and why that matters to me so much.  You're peaches and red gingham table cloths and daffodils.  You're wind chimes in June.  You're Saturday's sunrise.  You're violins.

And I love you, just because.

Most Of The Time

There were only three people left for him to say hello to.  And two of them were adults.  His hair was never combed, and his shirt was never ironed.  And his teacher only said two words to him.  And his mother wasn't home for dinner, but she did leave instructions for the casserole.  And his dog didn't want to sleep on his bed anymore.

He wrote a song about misery, and he called it love.

Peter Isn't On This List Because He Doesn't Really Exist

These are those who thought they were enough:

THE BOY

You are both sweet and obnoxious at the same time.  You smell like dirt and your face reminds me of a lizard.  You have as many freckles as I can count, and you spit when you say words that contain the letter P.  However, I still have that little alligator figurine you gave to me on Valentine's Day.  You made me very ashamed for most of my life, and I know that you hate me for pretending you weren't mine.  Please don't think of this as an apology, though, because I know that you held hands with Marissa Clementi on Thursdays.  

THE KID

You freak me out a little bit.  Your hands sweat when I so much as glance in your direction, and you chew your food way too loudly.  I admire your dedication to Christianity, but your "text prayers" are just strange.  God can hear you when you speak, you don't have to text him.  You thought I was mean for telling you to date other people, and you're right.  That was mean.  You bored me.  I had run out of questions to ask you, and I was starting to repeat them.  And you didn't even notice.  You just wanted to see my name light up on your phone, and I was eager to erase yours.  Honestly, the only thing we had in common was that our desperation was matched in severity.

THE FRIEND

You weren't afraid of singing in public, and you wore fingerless gloves just because you could.  You had a yellow backpack, which was very easy to spot in the crowded hallways, and you would always say hello, which was nice. You said that cats were your favorite animal, and I still liked you after that.  You told me stories about living in New Mexico, but you could never remember the capital.   And when you touched my arm, I felt it for days after.  You made me believe in love, and I hate you for that.  Because you never really looked at me the same way my dad looks at my mom, and you didn't ask me to Prom.  You left me sooner than you came, and it took me twice that to forget your middle name.  Maybe someday I'll be able to forget the rest.

THE MAN

You have a goofy face.  You do.  It's very angular and sharp, but you wear it well.  You were so much taller than me, I mostly didn't know where to look when we spoke.  I only saw you once in a while, but it was all I ever looked forward to.  You made things exciting and you were clever and charming in a way that was too forwards sometimes, but I liked that.  I liked that you would kiss my hand when I walked into the room, and I liked that you always told me I was beautiful.  There isn't much I have to say to you.  Except maybe that I wish we had had more time.  But even with that being said, I don't regret anything.  I don't miss you.  I don't want you.  You were nice, and so was I.  But I can be nice to someone else.  And you were being nice to other girls long before you met me.
  

THE STRANGER

You confuse me the very most.  I know many things about you, but I still don't know how to make you laugh, and I still don't know how to catch your eye when we sit in silence in the back seat of the taxi in the rain.  I appreciate you way too much to have a regular conversation with you, and I just don't deserve you in all of your complexity and perfection.  Still, I know that I could very easily fall in love with you.   Mathematically, you and I are made for each other.  But I've always been terrible at math. 

THE BOSS

You think like a man, even though you don't act like one.  You make really bad jokes, but I laugh at them anyways.  And when you talk to me you always say one bad thing about me, and two good things.  You have small legs and small arms and large hands, and you ride a motorcycle because some guy told you once that you're inadequate.  I find myself always running your errands, and sticking around longer than I should.  I want your approval, but I can't stand your company.  You never liked me in a romantic way, and I am glad for that.  But you do want to buy me pants.  And I'm proud to say that I'll never accept them.  

"Wendy: Sir, you are both ungallant and deficient.

Peter: How am I deficient?

Wendy: You're just a boy."

--J.M. Barrie

Pseudonyms And Euphemisms

I'm not sure how often I should pray,

but just to be safe, I make sure I mention you every time.  

You're really something, I guess. 

With your straight back and your calloused feet.  I don't know what your name is, or where you were born, but you look like someone I've always known.  You look like someone I used to love.  I wonder if it was you all along.

Please don't think of me as inane.  I try to keep to myself on days like this, when the grass weeps and the trees quiver.  I try to pretend I'm someone else, someone more deserving.  But please do not think of me as anything but flawed.  And I hope one day you'll see them all as the epitome of love.  My every crack and my every fissure will someday be a representation of the stars that threaten to fall from the sky.  A representation of the way you look at that old photo of your mom.  

And every time you speak my name, we'll hear the wind fling itself against the front door, 

because when I'm around you, 

                                 I am not safe.  

I fear that I will run out of things to say, and we'll fall into patterns.  Cookie cut shapes of Christmas trees and bells, perfectly laid out on the table for all the neighbors to "ooh" and "aah" at.  We are merely caricatures, and silhouettes.  Our hands remain entwined, but our minds repel each other like broken magnets.  I fear this day and the days that are sure to follow.  I fear the silence, and the heartbeats that can be heard on even the rainiest of days.  I fear your judgment and your faith and your determination.  I fear your eyes will not ever truly see mine, and your ears will change the words I say.  

It's not right, and never will be, but I cannot help but ask you one more time, "Did you think I didn't mean it when I said I'm incapable of love?"