Starlit Whispers

Lived across my apartment.
Was literally five steps away.
Knocked on my door to ask for sugar.
Scared me because of his dirty unshaven look.
Stepped away with no sugar and an annoyed look from me.
Laughed when I said sorry days later.
Knocked on my door for sugar. Again.
Smiled when he got ten sachets of Splenda.
Held up cupcakes when I opened the door.
Became my morning jogging companion.
Held my hand when I got shaken up over some news.
Shared my once-solitary bookstore afternoons.
Took me to his once-solitary food haunts.
Became my best friend.

Till autumn came. Then Harold

Stood still at the steps of our apartment building.
Stuttered as he looked at his restless hands.
Told me how the past half year had been good.
Shared how it all began with the denial for sugar.
Whispered sweet, sincere somethings.
Quieted as the streets became void of people.
Kissed me for the first time.
Laughed when I answered his question.
Squeezed my hand as we went up the stairs.
Then baked me eight cupcakes with one letter each (figure it out).

First
His fingers grazed mine till we were interlocked in touches and kisses.

Second
His fingers grazed my neck till we were overcome with heavy breathing.

Third
His fingers grazed my wrist till we were hidden behind crowds.

Fourth
His fingers grazed my shoulders till we were static as the world moved on.

Fifth
His fingers grazed my neck till we were unbreathing, unseeing, unliving.

His hands no longer stifle
but the prints
are still there.

There is something calming about putting little pieces together.

Perhaps it is the thought, the act of giving form to the broken.

A jagged piece. Unpartnered. Set side by side a perfectly square turquoise tile.

Neither looks wrong when put together. Like they just jive.

You fill up the table with more mismatched shapes, flatten them out, make sure nobody’s sticking out.

Jagged pieces all equally flat and beautiful.

It would be nice to put the little pieces together.

A puzzle of blue tiles under the afternoon sky.

No chronological order. No 1-2-3’s.

And they all still fit.

When Jed & I broke up, I didn’t feel anything.

It was breakfast. Maybe brunch. I was watching him turn the eggs over easy when I blurted out, “This isn’t going to work.”

He turned towards me, then shrugged his shoulders. “Salt will help,” he said, sliding a plate of weird-looking eggs between us.

I took a piece of toast and spread butter on half of it, strawberry jam on the other. He got a glass of ice and filled it with non-fat milk. I sliced the edges off the toast. He put a pink straw in the glass. I passed him his half-and-half toast. He passed me my iced milk.

Sip. Chew. Sip. Chew. We both stared outside the kitchen window when the dishes were done. He washed, I dried.

“I’ll take the guitar, you can keep the cookbooks,” he said huskily, breaking the silence.

“You can take them. I’ll keep the blue casserole dish,” I replied, watching a little boy chase a wheel down the street.

“No,” Jed said, watching the little boy catch the wheel with a stick. “I’ll just be reminded of all the dishes we wanted to cook together but never got to.”

I sold the cookbooks at my neighbor’s garage sale. They too reminded me of the dishes that got away. The guitar was left behind contrary to Jed’s plans. Before he gave me a kiss on the forehead, he said he didn’t want to be reminded of the songs he’ll never play for me. A tad too dramatic but I did understand.

When he drove away, I didn’t feel anything.

But when I take the guitar out of the closet and play a few tunes, I am whisked back to the evenings Jed sings for me, and I for him. And then I feel something. I feel my heart falling back into broken pieces. I feel hot tears on my cheeks. I feel angry for not wanting the same things he did, and for him not wanting the same things I did.

And then the guitar is back in its case, back in its dark closet corner. And then I don’t feel anything at all.

I’ve sold it on eBay for a song.

I wrote you a poem
but I lost my way through the words.

I was either grappling
for the right word with the right meaning
or stuck reminiscing
rekindling the feeling behind the words that
I got lost again in daydreams.

I wrote you a poem
in my head, I had the words
but they wouldn’t flow well or didn’t sound the way
I wanted them to sound - sweet, romantic.

Instead they came in tumbles and jumbles
random senselessness connected in the emotions that
made them flutter and fly
back to my daydreams and that is why

I wrote you a poem
but then I lost my way.

I was limited to words for acting on them would have brought undesirable though much desired consequences.

There was…

an us?

I am overanalyzing your words and your lines
and reality would probably crush my illusions of a romance that could have been (should have been)
but still…

I will never forget
us
either.

And now the alternative scenarios play again in my mind.

Maybe I should take things out
one by one
until the slate is clean again

And then I’d leave
and nobody
would
n
o
t
i
ce.

—
Image by exploding dog

Sssshhh
It is best not to speak
of sparks and seduction

when both are knowing
it will soon
be ending
and the vacancy of
tomorrow
coming

To be continued.

Someone told me that hidden thoughts and emotions manifest themselves in slumber’s playground.

I must really like you then.

And I must really like you to like me back too.