edwards park.

napowrimo #28

I.

when we crossed
the river i made a mistake

one hand in yours, plucking grass
from a lawn with the other,

stomping the slugs and
snails downwards, into the earth

II.

you curl
fingers together
with yours in a lone
mitten;
you lost the
other, or gave it
away

III.

beneath our umbrella we damage
the soil, we dig with purpose

in the end
we ask for the rain, for
the way it becomes when
we’ve torn up the streets

home (office).

20140216-224356.jpgorganizing my office can be
the best part of the day.
i hide bits of glamour
behind the sheets of
coloured cardstock
& the decoupage.

i find where i can fit you in
and let yourself expose
you. i breathe and i
pretend i don’t
need cigarettes.

i breathe and i
pretend i’m not
nostalgic for the year before.

hockey.

as grateful as i am that i have not
received a paper cut in these two
years, that
cautionary slice, i am that hockey
season’s over, and with it

that pale memory of yellow living
rooms, the walls the shade of
bags in hospitals, of trails left
by dying snails
and grey shadows of the sounds
of one last game on the TV cast into your eyes,

your eyes i couldn’t see through my
closed eyelids, your eyes i felt
once in a while, while we hid
that we were
holding hands beneath my sweater.
you trailed me home and kissed my
hair,

the part of me already dead.

cans.

it was christmas. all the walls came down at my torn toenails, the way his heels still sometimes do. it wasn’t an accident or anything; i chipped at them until they would not stand.

when i got the phone number of my first “love” this weekend, from his mother (that classic boy-next-door, the one our mothers dreamt i would end up with), it all became so clear. if i just called him, i could walk a small town party with him, in my high-heeled shoes (he’s an AUTO-mechanic, say it with me), linking arms and catching up on the fifteen years we lost. i’m sure i could. but i saw everything beyond that fallen concrete when he kissed me, though i forget the kiss. i remember that there were two mouths and flaring nostrils that i could see straight into. i remember that i touched his skin, protruding, an uncanny and disturbing scar. i remember that there were teeth because they bit me. i remember that there was a boy there doing this with me, but i forget his face the way i forgot his number and was reminded (incorrectly – he’s always been a kidder).

there is no chance for me. in the same way that there is no remembering. there are only small town memories, churches and backyards. addresses in covers of trade paperbacks. places to linger. places to look back at and remember the man i have loved from the very first day, a man who never wrote me a farewell card. a man who had not been a man, who had still been the boy next door.

until that boy next door gets married, i don’t stand a chance. even if he disappears without a trace i will always stay this way, making all the same mistakes, choosing all the wrong numbers to remember. somewhere in me i’m sure that it’s on purpose.

because i’d rather drift alone forever never knowing, than know that he was just one call away.