The Air

All poetry aside, the world is painful this week.  This week I woke up every day with a solid look glaring out the window angrily trying to find at least one cloud to hang onto, one flower to absorb my attention, one leaf to help float me to a better place.

I don't understand this autumn mood that set in so wearily, drafting down over my shoulders, weighing my head down so I only look at the floor now.

You are on the other side of the planet and all that I think of is you.  The sound of your voice last night, gently trickling through the phone, gliding into my warm ears.  I miss the smell of you and your gentle touch.  The eyes you so firmly brought to the side, the teeth you gritted, and the way you held me on the right as we walked down the road.

I miss it all.  The fish floating down our tongues and the salty water coming closer and closer to our summertime toes, sand sneaking its way into every crevice.

And what do I have here?  Not much of anything.  I see in a candlelit living room, the sound of the fan filling up the atmosphere with everything, because that's everything.  That droning sound of the blades running counter clockwise as they try to escape something.  That's all that I have here.

I have the air.

Follow up visit

What is it about me?  What is it that makes me, with my scrawny little arms, grab deep into the ground, pull up the earth, and turn it upside down for just one person that makes my heart crawl into itself, running out of room in my chest cavity, squeezing tightly into my soul?

I don't understand why I am this way, and I feel like I shouldn't be sorry for it.

I shouldn't be sorry that I am capable of loving so hard that I can knock over walls and buildings.  I shouldn't be sorry that I would build a ladder from here to to the moon for someone that I love and care about right down and into my veins, pumping blood to my brain that constantly thinks for them.

Dad always loved unconditionally, fully, and with the utmost adoration and simplicity and I admire that about him.  The older I get, I see myself following a path that is leading me to wherever he happens to be on the line of fate that brings you to the capability to love more than any other human around you.  And dad found people who appreciate that about him.  People who would never hurt him because we care about him so much.

Why can't I find that?  Why is it that my friends who don't love deeply find those who love them and yet I... the person who loves with every cell on my warm body, cannot find someone who does not take advantage of that.  It is unfair.

Has dad found people who love as deeply as he does?  That's a good question.  Maybe I won't ever find someone who will love me to the same capacity that I am capable of loving.  How does dad come to terms with someone like that?  How will I come to terms with a whole life like that?

Will I ever find true love that rises the pale blond hairs on my fragile arms?  I don't know.  I feel like with every step I take, it seems a little less likely.  I found someone to love and he is 5,000 miles away.  It is like a sick fucking joke from the universe.  "Here, continue to be alone in Philly, surrounded by couples and love and everything that you don't have, and here, I will put the one bit of hope you've had in a long time so far out of reach that it will scar your heart even more than it already has been."

As if this year wasn't hard enough.  As if I am not worthy of love.  As if I'm just a cancerous disease that isn't worthy of a strong arm around my selfless body.  I was selfish, naive, and terrible in the past but how much must one make up for their mistakes that they hadn't learned lessons for yet?

I can feel it in my ovaries.  Today it was scary as a volcano erupting on my doorstep.  I'm fearing my follow up visit.  I am not ready to find out that I have one less reason for a person to love me, because it's already too much for me cope with.

Checking Tickets

I feel sore.  Like someone took a tool and scraped out my insides like a pumpkin ready for carving.  Only, there's no little light inside of me, lighting up my eyes and mouth.  There's nothing but a damp dark cave inside of me, molding and growing old.  

Why would any natural system find this to be a reasonable thing to do to a human who has hurt as much as me?  Why would the stars align in such a beautiful path and then scatter to the moon, the other planets.  I can't understand why the damp summer earth and the dry summer sky find it alright to drag a human against a rough cement sidewalk for so long and perk her up to another beautiful galaxy for a second, just to bring her down to the MilkyWay sidewalk once again.

I don't understand.  I don't understand autumn leaves and the smell of bonfires, thick beer running down my resting breasts.  I can't understand walking to the corner store and buying eggs and walking home and lighting candles.  Trivial things hardly make sense to me anymore, since my entire earthly existence is in question.  I have bigger problems to cook on my plate.  Like the fact that I don't even understand why the sun shines anymore since you aren't here.  You must have the sun in your pocket as you go about your perfect existence, waves echoing in the distance as you calmly pluck a tropical flower.

I just can't understand why I am here and why I am supposed to be here, living a life that is so painful every day.  The white walls in my apartment look whiter, and no matter how colorful it's contents, I feel as though I'm on a blank canvas with some dirty marks here and there, probably smudges from the sad tears flailing madly off of my aging face.  

I just can't understand, I won't understand, and I don't think I'll ever be at peace.

Until I see him again.