first date again

I'm going on a date tonight. 

My first date since being in your bed. 

And it's unbelievably strange.

Feeling sad. 

Because it means I have actually accepted our finality. 

And feeling kind of excited. 

And then even kind of guilty for feeling excited. 

At the potential of some other man's lips on mine. 

I hope wherever you are when you read this your mind is equally chaotic in all of your own conflicting feelings. 

Which I know a portion of carry feelings of longing. 

And I don't feel guilty for being glad of that. 

Timing is clever, though, I'll give her that.

In addition to being cruel.

You don't know this, but that night you talked to my friend?

That night I thought I was meeting her and I walked in and instead you were sitting beside her? 

The night you told me you wanted to date again and you wanted to do things right this time around? 

I was on a date. 

I had just come from a date. 

It was only a second date and he was such a southern gentleman he hadn't even tried to kiss me yet. 

But regardless. 

I stepped out of one date into your arms. 

Because you convinced me I was what you wanted. 

And now, here we are.

Thousands of miles apart and I'm getting ready to go out again with that same guy.

The one who graciously bowed out when I told him I wanted to pursue things with you. 

The one who eagerly made plans with me a short time later when you'd tossed me aside yet again.

See, Timing is rather beautiful in her cruelty. 

A tiny fraction of my heart was disappointed I wasn't going to pursue things with that man.

The man who moved to the right side of me to be the one nearest traffic when we were walking down Broadway. 

But it had felt a necessary sacrifice when you offered the chance of a continuation of our story. 

If I was to know you would interrupt our story in such an abrupt manner as you had done last year, I don't know that I would have gone along with it. 

I'm not saying I regret it. 

I just really don't know that I see the point. 

Why you made such overtures if all you were craving was a distraction. 

This city is full of beautiful women, darling.

You really needn't single me out anymore. 

In fact, I'd really rather you didn't. 

You're too vastly spread out across the emotional map I have no guide, no compass, no North Star to navigate. 

It all just kind of feels like some wretched dream now. 

Like Alice stepping out of Wonderland I'm not sure any of it was real. 

And I'm not changed the way I would be had it been something great. 

I think it had the potential to be.

But you never gave us the chance. 

And had you looked into my eyes with conviction and ardor that night, passion for the decision you claimed compelled you, this would be so much easier. 

I could believe you. 

And believe this wasn't still present.

Wasn't still in the back of your mind making you stare off on occasion when someone talked to you and wondered why you suddenly zoned off.

You looked deep into my eyes and smiled softly and then abruptly turned away. 

And when I asked you what that was you said you felt connected and then felt shame. 

I've been the other woman before. 

I've been told I am the fantasy. 

And the passion. 

And the mistake. 

And of all the things you could ever say to me, telling me I'm mere fantasy is one of the meanest things you could choose. 

It infuriates me. 

And degrades everything you went unnecessarily out of your way to show me. 

We didn't have a lovely fruition of fantasy. 

We either had a lie. 

Or. 

We have unfinished business. 

And either way. 

I don't like our story. 

I don't like who you've written me to be. 

I don't like your disturbing inconsistency. 

I had the sheer delight of a photo shoot this week.

And that Timing, once again was wickedly clever. 

Because the shots were all the scenes you'll never again see. 

The stockings and the lace. 

And the provocative smile on my mouth. 

I saved one particular outfit for the last shots we took because it was my favorite. 

And because it was what I had set aside to take with me for the weekend you'd said you wanted me in your arms, wanted time with me to be the last thing you did before you left. 

So I put it on for myself. 

And for the photographer who was going to capture the beauty you threw away. 

And when I walked in to the room he took one look at me and said, Fuck.

And I laughed. 

And said, that's exactly what I was going for. 

And you, dear one. 

Don't get to gaze deeply into my eyes anymore and think that same word in your mind, that word that fell from your lips each time we kissed. 

Fuck.

Now you only have 

whatever you have

with her. 

And if that word doesn't fall from your lips, doesn't constantly conjure up when you gaze deeply into her eyes, then what are you doing?

What more could you possibly ever want than that?

A Plea to My Tribe

Darling, my darlings,

I know my happiness is of the utmost importance to you, possibly as much as it is to myself. 

I know you would help me bury a body at three in the morning, that you would sing Disney movies in your pajamas with me for eight hours straight. 

I know that if I needed anything or was anywhere you would be there in an instant, with whatever I needed, whiskey, a condom, a rifle. 

But I need you to let me process in my own time. 

I need you to let me have my choices. 

Maybe they'll be wrong, but fuck, at least I can know I tried. 

Life doesn't answer the cries of your heart every day.

It doesn't even answer them every year. 

And Life took the deepest, strongest desire in my heart and it handed it to me, carefully placing it in my hand, to relish and absolutely delight in. 

And then thirty five sublime days later it took that desire away from me in its entirety. 

I won't be able, physically or mentally, or even spiritually able, to accept such an offering and its violent shift as quickly as you'd like me to.

I longed for such a reunion for three hundred and sixty five days. 

Surely you can understand I might need several more to accept its never going to be placed back into my hands.

If I even can ever accept that. 

I'm not going to become Emily Dickinson and sit alone in my room writing poems about the love that left me. 

I even already contacted the guy who took me to the symphony and he said he'd love to see me again. 

I will find the fuck with someone else. 

I will sip cocktails with you and talk about the guys I'm going on dates with and all the weird shit they do in bed.  

But my heart.

My heart is not going to be able to close the door on this unfinished story, however much you think it should. 

I can't. 

And it won't. 

And that doesn't make me weak or wrong or foolish.

That makes me strong. 

For believing in something entirely beyond me, beyond my grasp, beyond the logical order of anything and everything I can see and understand or foolishly try to comprehend. 

I need you to trust me. 

And not try and change me. 

And maybe you do know more than I do and maybe you can see what I can't because you're not in it and I'm covered. 

I'm cloaked in the knowledge of experiencing such ecstasy. 

But maybe you don't know. 

And maybe no one can. 

And maybe that's the point. 

To trust the perfect order in the chaos we think is Timing. 

And maybe I will meet Mr. Wonderful on any one of the countless dates I go on. 

And you know I will continue dating, continue searching for a connection that intoxicates my soul.

But please accept my heart. 

And its limits. 

And it's overwhelming, unruly desires. 

You all thought I was mad last summer for believing anything still existed and look what transpired. 

It did.

And it still does.

I need time. 

I need it to be okay for me to miss him and to believe he's missing me even more. 

I need to believe he'll want me in his arms again. 

Because I was just enveloped in them.

It was all so completely mine.

I can't be the girl you want me to be who hates him and thinks he is wicked or that it was all malicious manipulation. 

I just can't.

Because it's not.

It's a complicated mirage for something that is actually simple.

We're connected.

And nothing can change that. 

If it's another three hundred and sixty five days we will still stare into each other with awe and wonder. 

And I don't want to fight you. 

Because I love you. 

And I need you. 

More than I even need him. 

But you have to know.

My heart. 

My wounded heart needs to be handled with care. 

And Hope is something I may never let go of. 

But I will never wait. 

And you have to know that. 

As you know me.

More than he maybe ever will. 

Fortune's little fool

My life is a tragic comedy. 

Because the tragedy of it truly is hilarious. 

I couldn't write it more exquisitely if the typewriter sitting in my living room possessed the power to actually impact my life. 

He ended things. 

Not because of me.

Not even because he doesn't have feelings for me.

I saw it all last night, the violent swirl of chaos flickering in his eyes.

Once again outside forces have planted their roots between us. 

And for some reason, some inexplicable cause, I am calm. 

Inordinately, eerily calm.

I don't know the woman I am right now.

But I'm kind of falling head over heels for her. 

I thought perhaps it was purely shock. 

It's been nearly twenty-four hours and the body has an impressive way of dealing with tragedy, of working overtime in its survival mode, going through the motions out of necessity. 

But I woke up just as balanced and I realized my calm was by choice. 

I've never handled a breakup with such ease. 

And it wasn't because my feelings for him weren't strong. 

No, quite the contrary, I was fairly certain I'd always been in love with him, and surely always would be. 

It was beyond my measurable control.

But that's the beautiful thing with love-

it endures. 

It didn't mean I wouldn't find my way into someone else's arms.

I knew when enough time had passed I'd even love someone else. 

In an entirely new way, unique to the specific connection I shared with that man. 

But that would have nothing to do with him. 

Just as his choice right now had nothing to do with me. 

And maybe in some perverse fucked up way, I was lucky. 

Because I'd already lost him once before. 

I'd pined for him, and mourned his absence and felt fortune's fool for believing in a connection the world believed was one sided. 

But then. 

Then he revealed to me the truth. 

The truth of how he'd never stopped thinking about me. 

The truth of how he'd stayed away from me and tried desperately to ignore his feelings for me because he knew our connection was still there. 

And something about it all was frightening. 

And it was too much.

And it must have been easier to love a simple girl, to choose something familiar and comfortable, something where you knew where it would take you, to the extent of how it would push you. 

While nothing about the ecstasy existing between us was fathomable to either of us.

We were the stars in the sky, distant and vibrant and burning intensely until we formed a supernova. 

But this time, this page in our story, he was the one who was vulnerable.

He took my hand and wouldn't loosen his grip while his body held on to mine. He played his songs for my ears because he wanted me to finally know the overwhelming depths of him.

And four nights later he said he was conflicted. 

Confused. 

Uncertain. 

And not even trusting the choice he seemed to think he needed to make. 

And I should have been mad. 

I should have cried or screamed or punched him in his freshly formed face. 

But, contrastly to him, his nervous hands tucked in his pockets, I was certain. Confident.

A calm, cool goddess.  

And I've never stood in the storm that is a breakup that way before. 

I've never had no desire to fight or question or try to convince him otherwise. 

I simply said, I hope things work out for you.

Because we had already endured our holocaust. 

We had shut one another out completely and believed we would have nothing to do with one another ever again. 

And yet. 

And yet. 

This energy, this madness that existed between us, in spite of us, had fucking endured. 

It violently thrived.

In spite of our most virulent efforts to destroy it.

And who, in the history of all great loves, could look into the eyes of their lover knowing that?

So there was a part of my heart, amidst this ill timed goodbye, that was laughing at him. 

Laughing. 

Not in mockery or out of malice, but at the sheer circumstance that we stood there, rain kissing our cheeks, drops sticking to our hair, him in his tux, me in my fitted lace dress, like some scene in a movie. 

He wanted me to believe his uncertainty but I felt my heart reach up and pat him on the head. 

Silly little epic fool. 

Oh, adorable one. 

Have you still learned nothing yet of this force between us?

It was violently clear, from the flicker in his intense brown eyes staring, searching in mine, this wasn't over. 

And somewhere I knew that was the reason for my calm.

And so I smiled at him. 

And I said, Just promise me this. Promise when you realize you're an epic fool, you'll call me. 

And a grin took over his lips and he sighed quietly, Oh Teresa. Fuck.

And looked into my eyes the way he had each night I'd spent in his bed. 

And I leaned up and kissed him softly on his cheek, a long, slow kiss, my red lips leaving a perfect mark.

And he closed his eyes and held his breath as he felt the inaudible whisper rise up from my heart. 

I love you.

And nothing. 

And no one. 

Will ever change that.

This connection. 

This force he said he didn't understand, still didn't understand.

It was something else entirely.

And it would haunt him. 

Continually knaw at his insides, as it had done, as it would continue to do, this past year, this next. 

And I wickedly delighted in that.

Trusted that.

In knowing my face would appear when he closed his eyes.

And eventually the ache, the longing, the fucking burning in his skin would drive him to blinding certainty. 

And I had no idea where I would be, who I'd even be with, when his name appeared across my phone once again. 

And Timing, while she tries relentlessly to rule my moon, no longer held her power over me.

Because I spent the last year in the arms of other lovers and somehow, found my way back to his.

And I was lucky.

I'd already lived the impossible. 

So I already knew anything, oh yes, absolutely anything was possible. 

And I'd never trusted anything with more certainty than that.

Unwavering, resolute, certainty. 

Pink Moon

It was a full moon this week. 

A pink moon. 

(That's my favorite Nick Drake album, you know..)

I was heading to my lovers and as I stepped out of the car I looked up and there it was.

Our moon. 

And I of course thought of you.

Once every blue moon...

And I wondered if somewhere you were looking up thinking of me. 

And then I realized where I was standing, where I was headed shook me from my reverie, and I left the moon behind me, because it wasn't ours anymore.

It illuminated my lover, my new story, my second chance. 

My sweet mulligan.

And I smiled. 

Because I knew, perhaps even to your own surprise, I knew you'd be happy. 

Happy that I was finally so happy. 

And I wished somehow I could tell you all about it, tell you everything, how the impossible became mine, how it even held my hand, how unbelievably comfortable I was.

And I thought how it's been so long. 

So very long since I've heard from you.

And how bizarre that truly is. 

But in the depths of my heart, in the quiet hours of the night, that somehow makes me happy. 

Happy not to hear from you?

Aren't we a strange pair?

Because I know, I know it means you must be happy too. 

As you can only be,

 without me. 

And as I can be 

without you too. 

And here I am, dancing in the throes of spring romance,

sending you a sideways smile.  

Aren't we the lucky ones?

My heart. Fuck. My heart.

Yesterday I felt like the ghost of Kai haunted me the entirety of my day. 

I woke up and Facebook, stupid fucking Facebook and its 'On this Day' bullshit that reminds you of everything that no longer is, was the first thing I saw. 

There he was. 

That face.

And in one of those rare moments where he was actually looking at the camera. 

It hurt my heart for all those years the way he refused to take photos with me, refused to look into the camera, or smile, or even be willing just to stand there beside me and let me capture that moment. 

Because photography fills this cry in my heart. 

The way music does.

But he never understood any of that. 

Except. 

Except on this particular day, in this particular moment, we sat on the barstools of Barlow, my best friend too, and he looked at the camera. 

And he didn't frown. 

And that was the night he saw my performance and heard me sing.

The night I drank too much and he took care of me and my friend said she saw for the first time how much he cared for me. 

The night I desperately hoped things would work out with the guy who already knew he was ending things. 

And Kai left us that night and his text appeared on my phone, I hope things work out for you.

God dammit. 

I'd never felt more loved by my friend. 

I'd never felt closer to him. 

And it was like this unknown farewell. 

Because everything changed after that. 

My love's chivalry was writhing in its death bed and Kai said we couldn't be friends anymore. 

As though you could actually break up with a friend. 

And I lost my lover and my best friend in the same month. 

And fuck, just remembering all of it made me nearly cry. 

All these months later. 

And Em and I walked along the waterfront and in the parts of the city him and I had walked a thousand times.

We went to the same juice bar he'd taken me too. 

And past the Chinese garden where he took what is to this day one of my favorite photos of me. 

And we went climbing, at the very gym I first began climbing with Kai.

And he was there. 

Through all of it. 

And I haven't called him. 

And I haven't seen him. 

In a year. 

And my heart. 

My wretched, stubborn heart wants to reach out. 

But I don't. 

Something always stops me. 

Violently halting the cry of my heart. 

And I suddenly shared the trembling shatterings of my heart. 

And she asked, But is your life really any less richer without him?

And I stopped. 

And I looked across the river. 

No, I whispered. 

It's actually richer. 

And my heart. 

My heart wants him to still love me. 

My heart wants to go back to that night, that night Facebook wanted me to know was exactly 365 days ago, and I want to wrap my arms around his neck and hold him so tight. 

In those tan pants and that wool t shirt that still had a hole in it. 

Because I know now that it all ends there. 

And maybe I can just accept that he really does hope things work out for me. 

Even if he won't see another moment of it. 

And somewhere in the quiet caverns of my heart I whisper out across the water and the city lights, where he's walking along some side street, They have. They did work out. And I wish you could see how happy I am. Happy without you. As I hope you are without me. 

My darling. 

God I hope you miss me. 

Your weird girl. 

Too Much

"I wondered what was going on. I thought, she hasn't written in awhile, she must be happy."

I have kind of amazing friends. 

The best, in fact. 

The sorts of friends who remember the things your ex lover said five years ago. 

The sorts of friends who will ask your crush what's going on with us. 

Friends who realize things about me I don't. 

She was right. 

And that wasn't surprising since she had always remembered details of my life I'd already forgotten. 

It was pretty fucking creepy. 

And one of the countless reasons I adored her. 

What she'd said echoed in my ears....she must be happy......

I didn't really think I only wrote when I was upset.

But it was the way I processed. 

The truth was some things I didn't want to process.

Some things I didn't want to share. 

Sometimes a thing carries with it such delight it feels too decadent to repeat. 

I guess there was something about the past two weeks I didn't need to process. 

I was intoxicatingly content. 

Life has this peculiar way of surprising you--no--of shocking the panties right off of you.

I don't know that I've ever gotten exactly what I wanted before. 

No, that can't be true. 

But what about losing exactly what you'd always wanted?

What if everything you dreamed of, every fantasy and desire and hope for a lasting connection was wretched from your shaking hands?

And what if you'd grown accustomed to mourning the loss of it, of its entirety, for weeks upon months, of its indifference toward you, and what if you'd cloaked yourself in acceptance of never even looking upon it again?

And then, then what if on one unsuspecting night, you suddenly had all of it placed carefully back into your life, every last haunting detail of it, so that you were almost frightened by the sheer inexplicable force of it?

I have

what I spent

so

much

time

a c h i n g

for

And now, I have it.

It's mine. 

And I have to be cautious in my delight in it because everyone around me is waiting for the anvil to drop, for history to repeat itself amidst its repetition. 

And I've changed. 

I'm finding I'm even surprising my reflection. 

And I already know what could very easily be. 

It no longer has any element of surprise over me. 

And perhaps those previous cracks have strengthened. 

A part of me has become far too practical to get lost in the dizzying lure of romance. 

But when no one is looking,

when I'm alone in my car or staring back at my own reflection in my mirror,

I am giddy. 

Light headed. 

Overjoyed. 

At the sheer impossibility that has become the reality I'm swimming in. 

Sometimes I feel so drunk on happiness it hurts. 

It hurts to be this happy. 

It's strange and wonderful and complex in such simplicity. 

How can Life, in her tormenting inconsistency suddenly shove a rainbow down my throat?

Resplendent, he said to me. Because you're glowing. 

Because my skin has been consumed by joy. 

And yet-

and yet I am managing to remain calm. 

I'm like some slow motion scene in a film, where chaos is flying all around me, and insecurity and doubt would normally burrow its way into my skin to devour the joy dancing with the atoms in me, but instead I am still. 

And my focus, transfixed. 

And there is a connection that exists beyond anything and anyone I've ever felt or tried desperately to understand. 

I understand none of this.

But it whispers its secret in my ear and I smile. 

I know nothing of what is or is never going to happen. 

My uncertainty is surmounted only by my blinding joy. 

All I know, is that Life has taken every obstacle from what seemed a sad, lost story, and it has hurled all of it into the river, all the while laughing and singing and twirling with the stars. 

And so, we stood there, we two, startled, confused, staring only into each other's eyes, trusting. 

And that first step, that moment he reached for my hand and I squeezed his back in spite of my surprise, I knew. 

Somehow 

the timing

was finally ours.

Redwood

I've never had an anxiety attack before. 

At least nothing like this.

I knew the fever played its part in my passion and tears. 

But I also knew that I felt completely helpless. 

Like I was drowning. 

And my life was wickedly repeating itself, the same dissonant chords resonating in my broken heart. 

I didn't even realize it still bothered me, the pain of being shut out like a leper.

It seemed so long ago and so much has happened since, I reckoned it was all in my past, one of the many bruises of my heart, buried and healed. 

But suddenly in that instant, it all came rushing back. 

His refusal to have any communication with me, to offer no response to such a genuine iota of emotion, led my heart spiraling down a familiar dark corridor. 

It was happening all over again.

Just as before. 

And just as the one before him. 

And if I could have stepped out of myself to just reason with myself perhaps I would have been able to breathe a little more easy. 

It didn't mean anything yet. Only time could reveal that.

I managed to sleep through the night and when I awoke felt much calmer. 

Sad, but calm. 

I dragged myself into work and everyone was so kind I nearly burst into tears. 

I'd been a ball of heartbroken misery for so many hours, isolated in bed, and their loving faces melted my doubting heart. 

I wanted to have the strength to stay but after an hour I gave in to the fatigue and left to crawl back into bed. 

I slept for several more hours and awoke thinking maybe I was actually feeling better. 

Those minutes after first waking up are the best. 

Nothing else has filled the mind except the light bouncing off the leaves outside my window. 

I haven't thought about the texts I deleted from my phone or the fact there may never be another one from him again. 

I took a deep breath and got up to get a drink and my mind seemed suddenly less hazy. 

The lover I met last fall contacted me and let me know he would be in town again someone soon. 

I went to my bookcase and reached for the book he'd recommended that I so eagerly bought and then managed to never finish reading. 

He was the one time I truly let my guard down, in spite of myself. 

We fell asleep in each other's arms and when we woke we conversed for hours over eggs and coffee out of tin mugs. 

I foraged a friendship out of passion. 

And that was more rare than the passion itself. 

It was such an accident meeting him, the weekend my other lover was out of town, putting me on black out, declaring he wanted his space and I completely obliged. 

I hadn't made the date out of spite, more as something to do to keep me occupied. 

And after all, he was incapable of being mine exclusively so he held no ownership over my heart or my body or the wild stirrings deep inside of me. 

And I'm grateful for all of that for so many reasons but mostly I am grateful right now. 

Because a year ago I couldn't imagine life without the man I had fallen for. 

And being reunited has been incredible and confusing and as unclear as it was all those months ago. 

But I know now I can imagine life without him because I've lived it and I've loved and I've experienced pure joy and unassailing passion. 

I don't deny my disappointment over what seems to be as sudden a parting as our sudden reunion. 

But I don't feel anxious anymore. 

Clutching this book, I'm now as eager to read, I remembered who I am, in spite of his efforts to make me doubt. 

I am a vibrant, passionate woman who loves with an intense fire.

And I don't need any man, not even him, to be the receiver of that love. 

Because I choose who I share my passion with. 

And wonderful, intense connections aren't nearly as rare as I once believed. 

Besides I've learned it's not the men who will bed you that matter. 

It's the ones who will take you for brunch after. 

The brunch they know you love more than any other meal of the day. 

And he'd never taken me to brunch.

Never posed for a photograph like I asked. 

Never invited me to sleep in his sheets.

Because somehow we only ever got stuck in the passion and never found any connection beyond that.

He never needed one. 

Because I know now I was only ever a fantasy for him.

And I longed for so much more than passion.

Because when a man is a true lover he wants what you want, what's best for you, what makes your soul soar which then makes you so divinely irresistible.