Wednesday, July 27, 2016

on how it ended



He says he wonders what you look like in the morning and you chuckle. His words, though sent through a digital screen, course little cackles of electricity from your fingers, to the backs of your ears, and down your spine. You say you look horrible – dried up spit, messy hair, morning wood, 5 o’clock shadow.

You ask if that turns him off. How could I? It's all I can think of. He yearns for you more.

You think about what it would be like to be intimate with him. Your body tenses as you imagine your hands on his back, his fingers through your hair, your lips on his.

Kundera once said that love is not found in holding hands, in kissing, or even fucking. It is in the desire for shared sleep. Beyond the need to touch and release, you too wonder what it would be like to wake up next to him. You imagine the sunlight dancing across his young skin, his disheveled hair in the early morning, his voice as he wishes you the first good morning of many mornings to come. Beyond his body, it’s these pictures, these future memories you’ve borrowed that send you over the edge.

I awake to find you glowing at your phone. I mumble incoherently, sleep clouding my speech and better judgement. You say it’s nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. That day, I learned the difference between faithful and loyal. Why couldn’t I find a man who could give me both?

♫: Sam Smith | Leave Your Lover (2014)

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

optimism



I was told that all lies are half-true and that the world’s greatest deceptions on the earth and in the heart all have a bit of truth laced in.

It was a warm August day when he said he loved me. He said he didn’t know how, why, or even when but I’d somehow struck his heart like a chord or a comet and for that, he was irrevocably mine.

I jumped right in. We fell too hard. In the morning, he was gone.

Optimists pride themselves in seeing the glass half-full. I pride myself in seeing your love half-true.

This and other 100-word stories in Project 0.1.

Photo: cabin
♫: Joni Mitchell | A Case of You (1971)

Monday, January 4, 2016

tokyo love



He shows me pictures on his phone – busy lights, views from the Shinkansen, a million strangers crossing Shibuya all trying to get somewhere.

It looks like you had fun, I say.

Yeah, but it was lonely. There’s something about Tokyo. You get these automatic faucets and dispensers, doors all opening by sensors. There’s no touching, no intimacy. It’s fucking depressing.

I nod but don’t say anything. How can I? He’s not mine. But my love for him is automatic. If he only knew how I dropped everything today just to see him. And all he had to do was ask.

This and other 100-word stories in Project 0.1.

♫: Barenaked Ladies | Call and Answer (1998)

Thursday, October 22, 2015

wish you would



These morning cigarettes lend so much clarity, it hurts. When only quiet fills the void, every little thing you hide comes out to play.

I know what we have is different, that his love for me is in a language that escapes words. He looks at me and sees me. He kisses me and I’m home. He holds me until the early morning. And though I often wake up without him, that doesn’t mean he loves me any less.

I know he doesn’t need to say it. But every now and then, I can’t help but wish that he would.

This and other 100-word stories in Project 0.1.

Photo: artolove
♫: Carole King | Will You Love Me Tomorrow? (1971)

Friday, October 9, 2015

on how I write you



The words come as it happens. There’s an absence in his eyes, a shiver in his voice that tells me he’s stopped loving me. “Where are you going?” he asks, as though it’s the last time he’d ever see me. I can only watch as he walks away, gets on the next jeep, and rushes out of my life.

Then I tell the story again. There’s an absence in his eyes, a shiver in his voice that tells me he’s stopped loving me. I choke back tears as I struggle to memorize his face, the lines around his eyes, the tiny hairs on his chin. My palms were sweaty. I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want that last image of him. “Where are you going?” he asks, as though it’s the last time he’d ever see me. I shrug. I didn’t know where I was going. I can only watch as he walks away, gets on the next jeep, and rushes out of my life.

Then I tell the story again. There’s an absence in his eyes, a shiver in his voice that tells me he’s stopped loving me. The October showers are unpredictable and unforgiving. I choke back tears as I struggle to memorize his face, the lines around his eyes, the tiny hairs on his chin. My palms were sweaty. All around me, the world was alive. People rushing through the streets with umbrellas to the sky, never knowing that at that exact moment, a heart was breaking. I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want that last image of him. “Where are you going?” he asks, as though it’s the last time he’d ever see me. I look around me, the streets, the buildings, there was so much going on around me but not a single place felt like home. I shrug. I didn’t know where I was going. I can only watch as he walks away, gets on the next jeep, and rushes out of my life. It starts to rain. The people, they keep walking. They never stop. No one ever does. And that’s what it was like when you broke my heart.

Then I tell the story again. Each time I tell it, I get farther and farther away from you. How many more must I write until I’m over you?

Photo: typewriter
♫: Lucy Rose | Shiver (2012)