meses

Six months ago I was here, inhabiting the same bone and body.  I slinked onto wooden benches and straightened my spine upon seat.




Six months ago I was alone.  Sort of.  I walked into a cafe, not knowing any better, only knowing that I had to.  Six months ago--was I happier?


You're so amicable.  Sweet-natured, earnest.  Earnest, that really is the word for you.  You started a conversation and I--how many times can I rephrase and reword and relive those moments of savor?  Do they echo for you?  They mold for me and become malleable in my hands.  


I can't change you and I can't pretend to stay happy.  I can remember happiness and try and grasp at it, but it is not the same as yours, which is genuine.  If I was half, you would be whole.  I'm sure of it.


By default you make me feel that I dwell in unhappiness.  It's not your fault, really.  But by being the effing ray of sunshine you are, I am a huddled mask undercovers, whining and weeping.  I realize I am no longer that stronghold I once was.  Dare I become and utter the word "dependent."  Oh you.  How do I stay with you when my mind stretches to thoughts of ending?  I can't stretch you thin without saying goodbye.  


Do I want to end this?  Am I sabotaging for greater good?  For any good?  Who am I saving?  I deserve happiness.  I want it, like everyone wants peace.  But unsettled.  How do I break this to you without breaking your heart?  How do I do this without breaking my own?  Is this not right or is this so right that I have no right to walk away from it?


I don't know.  I just know that these oscillations are driving me crazy.  I feel for you and I feel daunted and complicated.  You say I am difficult and I must agree.  How do I do this.  How do I fix this.  How do I not disappoint both me and you.  How do I make this something not lost--by either being content or by losing it without remorse?


I don't know why this is occurring.  I don't know how to make it stop.  I hope it works for the best.  I hope it quells. Really I do. 

Chico.

I met you on a Monday morning but saw you on a Sunday.  You, standing by the baggage carousel, with your puffy blue jacket, absurdly insulating your california-boy-heads-east exposure.  I didn’t really take note of you (you know that), except to see you again at the rental car checkout and again at the hotel.  

In a moment so long ago that I crutch on memories, I can no longer remember the details of your stories, the intricacy of your expressions.  But I know they sparked mine and aligned so well that they impressed upon me something lasting.  I like the way you smell.  The way you crouch when you lean over your desk, to scribble something not to be forgotten.  The times when we drove through the snow, you distracting my novice navigating skills with your goofy rap-alongs to 95.5 KIIS FM.  When I told you something outlandish (word vomit, admittedly) and you smiled crookedly, saying you felt the same.

I have hopes and dreams like the rest of them.  And I don’t know if this is one that wisps away with the wind or more realistically, with time.  But.  But I do know it meant something.  And it doesn’t have to mean much more.  Because there are realities.  And distance.  And time.

Maybe in this moment you can read this and know.  Maybe realize, if you haven’t already.  That--that I am calling to you, in my side-stepping, arm-around-self way, to say that I want a chance.  It doesn’t have to be forever.  And we don’t have to echo the tales of fairytale splendor or e-harmony commercials.  But we can hang on to each other, just for a little bit.