Your Fonder Heart

She's the kind of girl who lives romantic. Red lipstick, little black dress. Curls and pearls. Super slim cigarettes, Dry martinis and vodka water. White carpet, white teeth. Leather bound books, rotary telephone. Typewriter, typewriter, typewriter. Personalized stationary, personalized pen. Perfect cursive, wet black ink. Polite shoes, yoga mat. She's the kind of girl who lives nomadic. Plaid sweatshirt, blue jeans. Sneakers and coffee. Cheap smokes and chain smoking, Wind-blown hair, notes on napkins. Water-logged book, back pocket. Mascara Tea lights, Belle and Sebastian. Beer and scratch tickets. French cursing, untying. Bubble gum and wrappers.

Tonight, Black History Month is not celebrated. It isn't even forgotten. It was never thought of. Tonight, instant coffee is pulsing through my fingers. Dictionary-digits, as I call them. Tonight, sleeping is not an option. Nervous knees will deny my desire for rest. Tomorrow, I won't get anything right. I'll drink too hard, I'll smoke too much, I'll cry too often. But for now, we'll just fold our hands on our laps, tell stories of ghosts, and regenerate the night we met.

I wrote you letters, I typed them on my Smith-Corona. Restarting with each mistake, telling you stories of delicate, cold sunrises. Sunrises which I have never seen, for each night I am awake into the wee hours of the morning, falling asleep as the moon rises in the East. You told me, "I love the coast the most," but God damn, what about me?

The love between two people, nothing alike, nothing in common other than a love formed through fear of not being together. So that in the future, you can remember that being together was lonely, but also just enough so the loneliness didn't hang like your thoughts on life and death when you step outside for a cigarette. He hates you and your cigarettes, and you will die lonely. You will die rough hand in soft hand, tool-baring hand in dish-washing hand, idolized by the friends you knew well enough to remain distant from. And you will die happy that you are not alone, even if that means being lonely.

This love, which began as a molehill, and as so many other things, soon transformed into a mountain. A violent, unfamiliar journey, obstacles and surprises. Like trying to squeeze a pillow into it's case after doing laundry. It seems like it should be so simple and easy, but it's a wrestling match, a feat of strength, and no satisfaction can be found at the finale. That night, sleeping on this pillow will not feel right. Where do you go from there??

How do you expect me to rid myself of all, of everything, of all this, this turbulence of the heart? These hurricane winds, the smell of hair product, the untied shoe lace, the music in your car? I've been saturated with everything that is you, so please add one more piece, the last piece, the cure to this un-release.

I've always played the role she needed filled. I was a stranger when we met. I was a friend, a companion, a girlfriend. I was a teacher when she got a promotion. I was a lover when she was lonely. I was available when she was anxious. I was a date when she wanted Italian for dinner. I was just another person at the end. Now I don't matter. How is a kite supposed to fly without wind? How is a fish supposed to swim in a mud puddle? How are the birds expected to not explore the boundaries of our atmosphere while they're up there? How am I supposed to be a person who has been everything and doesn't matter anymore?