• quiet as imbibed church mice are we

    by  • August 25, 2015 • * Safe for Work *, Closure • 0 Comments

    You took me into a corner of the balcony. The landscape below was full of snow and ice. You were wearing dress shoes from high school and an ill fitting shirt. The shirt made you look out of place because every part of you is tailored made for clothes that can’t be found in a department store. I got quiet and for a small moment my judgement lapsed and I fit perfectly in your arms resting my lips on yours. They moved together slightly then opened slowly and you took me deep inside. I tripped through your mind for years. I listened to the whispers of the rice paper against the wall as the heater moved it slowly and rocked us gently to sleep. You held me once close until noon, our legs entwined, snow noses touching like Eskimos do. We imbibed spirits of both kind. You said I made you feel human and I said you made me feel like I was home. You left me standing on this side of the Illinois border. You moved two years ago today. I have a Mountain Laurel where a watch would rest. I never called Pittsburgh home but you are there and that makes it home in a never lived there kind of way. I close my eyes and I see you at your drawing table creating worlds from your pen scribed on paper in books I bought sewed together with leather string. I cant make books but I can make scarves. I made them in between the time we were apart, so when I saw you again they would keep you warm. Deep in winter you would wear them on your walks. I never wanted to be too far away. I can’t traverse two states in an instant. I can’t write you a letter you don’t want to read. I can’t close my eyes and imagine you here. I am ill fitted. You need comfort and I can’t give it to you. No amount of warmth and light will ever make that shirt feel right. You are almost human. I am almost home. Almost is mostly about selfish desires we place on those we love that they can almost fulfill. I am sorry that we can’t make each other comfortable. I am sorry we can’t be ok. I am sorry I cause you anxiety when I write or call. I am sorry that you aren’t home anymore. I love you so much. I love you so much. I miss you so much. You deserve so much you will never take from the world. Sometimes I see an old man with floppy ears and an ill fitted shirt and I pretend time travel is possible. You come back and get a coffee from me just so you can see I am ok. There is a smile at the corner of your lips. I tripped into those lips so many times and I kissed the secrets away until there was nothing left but you and me. You tip me in the glass jar next to the register. Then scatter on into the wind that bends the mulberry tree outside my window.

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