Emotional Clean-up Crew

Wake to the pain. It is fresh as light, new in the moments its causes remain forgotten.

You reach down to touch the sensation. You guess at its location. You find feet and hands instead – realizing the whole instrument.

When it hits you, it will sound the alarm. Your body will sing into sweat and grief and rage at abandonment.

First, reach deeper to feel the wound. Sit up in bed. What will answer it? Will you need an army? Will you need a new lover? Will art open you?

Go to the places he went with you. Smell the roses out of your memory. Place them on the ground.

Go to his hometown which you will not recognize. His perspective to dissipates to air, to gray city.  He is unknown.

The morning generates a morning and a new day. Tender, the pain is wrapped and held. Tender, it dissipates. Memory loosens. Find yourself in air.

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Affair.

So sweet. Sweet, but what a drag, getting to know yourself. On a date, even the silence is filled with you. This breeds indecision. I question every movie choice as I look into someone else’s eyes and think, “I don’t know what you want right now.”

In polite conversation, you can shrink yourself to invisibility. To teleprompter status. And you can keep the secret of your sentience as well as technology does.

Because I am traveling, this relationship has a built-in terminus. An end of the line when a distance of thousands of miles, when space will explode between us. For now things feel fresh and heady. He is outside waiting for me, smiling at me.

Yesterday at six am I got a phone call from Alaska. And I said messy things to an ex to give closure. And then this door opened, and He was there. I still don’t know what this is, this shining and temporary thing. As this affair washes over me, I worry that I am the only discrete thing in the experience.

The guards are up because there isn’t time to let them down. Our conversations, His and mine, have dips and grooves in them from where things were edited or carved out. And at first I rebelled against this dishonesty but now I adapting because I find things I don’t want to share.

After that call, I felt brilliant and solid. I cried. I saw my friendships hundreds of years from now, like iron bonds supporting the earth. I wanted to thank everything, every facilitating thing for the honesty that erupted between me and this ex.

Last night in a fairground over ice cream, I stumbled telling the story of my tattoo. Of how I chose the words I spend my life with. Wonderful, so wonderful, to have someone listen and wait for you and hold doors. But the problem is that you have to open in response, and when things are temporary, this is not easy. And maybe not advisable.

Sometimes I imagine that we’ll course correct, or converge later in life. He’ll visit the US and we will rediscover one another. And when the frame changes this trust, this attachment will be possible, or available, even if we don’t use it.

Clean Sadness

Since I left my last partner, who loved me, I have been traveling a long corridor.

I did this as a child. The bones of my feet fell unevenly on the smooth wood. And I remember its shine.

When my parents divorced it was my chore to bathe the floors in lemon. And when it frothed, I felt sad in the bones of our house.

Michael was so gentle. And when I was depressed I could feel him tinkering around me, trying to alter some misfit piece of reality. He fixed my bike and my car. And when he did, I took his face between my palms and kissed him with my eyes wide open.

There are no hallways in the place I live now. Unless the whole place is a hallway and I live in the room at the end of it. Regardless, there is this running feeling of grief.