Thanks For Listening

I'm sorry it wasn't good enough.

But tomorrow, we'll make our beds and wipe off the counter tops as if nothing has ever happened.
And we'll ignore the constant clicking of our bedside worries.
And our arms will brush aimlessly against the next,

in a detached
and passive way.

And our mothers will cry
and our best friends will not.

And the red light bulb will flash, and we will weep for the memories that eat at our hands.

I will miss your stories and your kindness, and the way you slur your words when you're tired.  I will miss Paris, and the lights.  And the old man who counts the number of people that pass every hour.

I'm sorry this wasn't good enough.  The paths of reality and desire run parallel to each other, but sadly they do not cross.  And that's not anywhere near the apology you deserve, but I don't have a better one to offer.  So this one will have to suffice.

I'm sorry I can't fix you.

I guess I just can't equate.

Who Says We Can't Have It All?

If there's one thing I've learned from high school, it's that the best way to have success in life is to fill your head with apathy.

I can do that.

Walking In High Heels And Not Tripping

I don't recognize a lot of things about my house anymore, not even the easy things like shapes and sounds.  And so many pieces of my room seem to be missing, like the bedside table.  I can't find the grainy surface beneath the unopened bank statements and illegible post-it notes.  Neither can I see the old nail polish stain on the carpet, or the dozens of tiny holes in the wall from countless attempts at filling that enclosing white space.  I feel sorry for doctors, and new homeowners.  The white space can drive you mad.

They expect me to not be so childish anymore.

"Come, Charlotte," they say, "tell us about how the enchiladas turned out.  Tell us about your choice of interesting fabric for these interesting pillows.  Tell us about how much fiber is in your cereal."

To which I'll reply, "Well, from time to time, I really enjoy a big bowl of Fruity Pebbles."

"Oh, I love Fiber One."

They're only waiting for their turn to talk.

What's worse is I cannot remember that beautiful phrase I came upon in that book I finished last week.  I wrote it down, and then accidentally set it on fire while trying to light a candle.  And when I search my mind for any recollection of it, I only come up with a list of the deposits I have yet to pay for my apartment, and all the things I still need to buy before I move out.

And the strangest part is:
The white space no longer bothers me.

"What a fine young woman you've become.
Such a fine woman."