changes pt 2
You’ve changed, and I won’t ever know how it happened, when it happened, why it happened. It’s just a matter of fact.
How peculiar that is. And maybe tonight everything changes. I’m happy you did. I’m still tentative about tonight though.
collection
Things to collect:
I don’t think people really understand the power of their words. Some things can be said so nonchalantly, such as:
please stay, cause you’re the only other person in this city I can relate to.
Maybe that’s just a casual statement, but to me it’s a declaration of trust.
familiar
My fingers are wrapped firmly around the base of the paint brush, I squat down and dip it back into the paint once again, I’m on repeat, I stand back up and ready myself to climb the stool and cover the next wooden panel carefully. I can feel my vision narrowing, black spots expanding temporarily. I’m dizzy, maybe thirsty? Maybe just tired. I’m in a mode where I should rest, but I can’t stop moving. It doesn’t concern me much, I’m used to this. It’s a familiar feeling. My heart beating a bit harder, my breath slightly shallow.
But then suddenly something else creeps up on me. It’s familiar as well, but I haven’t felt it in so long it immediately shakes me up. How long has it been, old friend?
Everything I do feels rushed, I have to concentrate hard on slowing down. But my mind starts to tingle when it perceives my every move in slow motion.
The loudness of voices all at once, an ominous warning that something terrible has happened. “Everything is fine,” I remind myself. “I’m okay.”
I’m slipping, everything feels broken, everything feels like it’s falling apart, nothing will ever be right again, the world is on fire and there’s an urgency and feeling of helplessness because I’m just standing here in the hallway holding a paint brush.
“I’m okay,” I repeat to myself, shaking my head and taking in deep breaths of air.
Was that how to do it?
A drop of cold paint slowly bled through my sock. I’m okay.
will
In my mind, there’s a place we go.
Where we don’t know, but we will. I picture myself in the midst of a crowd, not knowing. It’s safe to not know. I’m safe, I’m surrounded by the people who can tell me I know everything I need. I do, like I always have. So I’m free.
They know, and I know. So I dance, like there’s no tomorrow. I dance, like I’m safe. I can feel my pulse doing overtime. The beat shaking my bones, vibrating through my core, I’m swaying and swayed. I trust you, I always have.
But then, goosebumps, there’s a presence I can’t pinpoint, but I can feel it. But then, a shadow fills my soul. Fills the room. Grabs my hips. Moves me, through space and time. Swallows me whole.
But then, we’re dark. We’re wrong, we’re twisted. We are dangerous. But that’s not true. You’re dangerous.
Where’s my will?
quit you
I’ve recently discovered that the thing is, we’ve got ourselves all wrong. I felt like a genius, just then, and slowly realised how much effort would go into proving it. So maybe we can’t be bothered.
So it’s sort of a hopeless state of having to be where you don’t want to be, it’s dystopian dysfunction and you’ve understood that, but when you did, you had to turn in your hope in exchange for nothing. But I mean, it’s not all doom and gloom, right? Right?
I think that’s why you’ve always proved me wrong. When everyone else is crazy, so are you, but you’ve always been the only one to make any sense.
skin
Do you remember that funny story you used to tell at parties, I don’t even know why your friends would ask you to tell it again, they must have heard it a million times, sometimes I think they’re kind of mean, like the way they would study me when they spoke as if every word was a test, well I would pass, smiling along, laughing at the absurdity of that situation, you know, it’s the haha kind of funny, who wouldn’t think so, and I really did, but no one else knew you like that, and this might have been the fourth time I heard it, there would be more, did I tell stories like it, I know I didn’t really mind, you know that too right, but sometimes I’d think of something nice, like your face or freckles, like our trip last summer, or what we’d do next Tuesday, what Christmas would be like this year and think of all the ways I love you and there it would be, you in that situation, I’d imagine what the humidity felt like on your skin, and what words were exchanged, I’d imagine the sound of your feet against the ground and the loudness of locks, doors opening and closing, water on your lips and nervous smiles for no reason, I’d imagine the expression on your face and it ruined me, I couldn’t tell you why, but I see how it snuck into our space and now that’s inexplicably one of the best kept memories.
measure
I squint. Look at it closely. From afar. Put some distance between me and it. Then close up. As close as I can get. I squat. From the left maybe. Then right.
How big is it? How tall? How heavy? How wide?
Sometimes light as a feather. Sometimes a stone. At times cold, at times warm. Maybe fluid. Maybe solid.
I realise some things can’t be measured. They just feel like a perfect fit.
spring
Did you even know it could be spring here? I think I’ve imagined it a few times, but never really envisioned it, which sounds curious but is the truth.
I look up at the tall tall trees, now featuring a canopy of leaves like a makeshift roof above us. I wonder if we’re ever here together anymore.
I sit and feel the grass between my fingers, the way it sticks slightly and tears at my skin without leaving any traces of it. Still not a day goes by without a visit.
past tense
I’ve avoided looking around too much, I don’t really want to be curious. Don’t want to let my thoughts wander, don’t want to know too much about who you were.
I walk around your space and touch your things. I let my hands run over the sofa cover, the ones you changed when she left. I look at decorative items you’ve received from someone or another.
I let the water run for a while to get warm, soak the cloth, wipe down the oven and countertop. Open the fridge. I stare at the bottle of fish sauce, wondering if you’re adult enough to use it with purpose. Unlike me.
Your plants are all healthy, and I feel like that speaks volumes about you. And me.
I pick up the collection of water glasses and make your bed the way you usually do it.
I stop by your bookshelf, let my body collapse into the chair and run my fingers across the spines of your notebooks. I consider. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. But it’s not about us. I don’t want to take it with me.
The air outside is fresh and new, and I breathe it in with greed.
onomatopoeia
It’s a low sound, like a rumble, the flutter of thousands of wings flocking together like dark waves across the dusky skies. I like to imagine those waves inside your heart as I lay my head on your chest at night.
Their movements like an avalanche, individual particles linked to their closest neighbours. It’s not by design, and it’s not coincidental. A fleeting moment, maybe seconds or maybe minutes. You can only hope it lasts for a little while longer.
I’m in a daze, struck by the way the world can be so beautiful. And that’s enough.
algorithms
Facebook appropriately suggests we become friends. Apparently we have a couple of mutual ones, and I just visited her city. Of course we should.
I haven’t thought about her much. But it hit me that she’s the only comparison. And now, that makes me wonder where I fall short.
breeze
And I suddenly felt like you had some mysterious side to you that I didn’t know about. I feel like I’ll feel that way in more ways than just right now.
In that sort of way, like it’s a surprise. I’ve already felt it. There are things you won’t tell me. Of course. Because that’s what we’re like.
But I also know I’m reading between the lines. I’m placing my experiences upon you like an anchor. To weigh you down or to keep you there. I don’t know.
I want to stop. I want to let you drift off like you would, in the soft breeze of our brief encounter. At this point, anything less would be a let down.
girl, interpreted
I nervously twirl my ring around my finger as I sit down next to you. I have this feeling of owing you something that I actually don’t, and I have to remind myself.
There’s an innate passive-aggressive way of dealing with these things, like that’s what we’re used to. Like that’s our main form of communication, even though we have a choice.
I’ve lost count of the many ways you’ve jumped to conclusions without me. And I try to remind myself how that usually plays out. I wonder if you’re aware.
At a time, we were running away. But I’m unsure where to or from what. Do you think you know me?
So as I sit here next to you, wondering what to say, I come up empty. If you conclude, then what is there left for me to say? Do you even care? I think the answer to that is why I’m lost for words.
then and now
“You weren’t meant to know me then”, she says when I can’t help but feel like I’ve missed out on something.
And I know she’s right. We were worlds apart then, and now we’re only hours apart.
All the parts of her that I love, I know they were there then. I know I would have loved them then.
But maybe I’m the one who has become someone she can love.
are you ten years ago?
“Sometimes it’s as if I can summon you with my thoughts.”
A classic double take, it’s such a cliché that it doesn’t even sound like the truth.
Or puzzling hesitation because you could feel yourself spiraling out of control. I’m sure that’s been interpreted the wrong way over and over. The endless moments of almost, like standing too close, like our legs touching when we sat, like your arm brushing against mine as you lost your balance walking home, like a hug lasting for too long. Like overthinking.
Like goodbyes for an hour. Or maybe forgetting the goodbye. Like comfortable silence, but speaking without words. Or regretting coming over, or regretting leaving. That stupid smile that you can’t wipe off your face, or the tears you can’t seem to stop. Words you can’t say, or can’t swallow.
Perhaps chasing, or running. Sometimes hiding. Those times giving in.
Replay, rewind, repeat. Set to loop.
It’s a rare luxury to have been unable to fall out of love again.
lights out
Sometimes I daydream about the things we never did that we should have done. But I realise that makes no sense, because the things we did were what mattered. Maybe we didn’t go on walks around the city, and maybe we didn’t go swimming in a lake. Maybe we didn’t dry off under the sun on towels, or make a fire to roast marshmallows.
I never got to show you my favourite parts of the city, or take you to my favourite coffee place. We didn’t ice skate or see a movie together.
But the things we did were just you and I. No props and no distractions, just us together. And the electricity that would undoubtedly get us in trouble until the lights were out.