resolution

My eyes, the color of the ocean
on a cloudy day,
are fixed on the ceiling above,
noting the popcorn flecks.
I turn my head
on the flat pillow,
towards your sleeping torso,
interspersed
with beauty marks;
constellations rediscovered
every night
by insomniac eyes.
I try to muffle the noise
of my quiet, steady breathing,
warm against your skin.
Your arm rests underneath my pillow,
my head is cradled
in the crook of your armpit.
You’re fast asleep,
breathing deep, and
I can’t seem to sleep a wink.
I think too much of things left
unsaid,
and search for the pesky words
in my head.
When I finally find them
I hold on tight,
but they always escape
by the end of the night,
when the sun starts to rise,
and you open your eyes,
and you look into mine;
I say nothing,
I just sigh.
‘Cause I realize
that it will never be time,
you’ll never be mine,
but really,
that’s fine.
You pull me close but
I’ve got to go,
so I roll off the bed,
and quickly get dressed,
pulling your favorite
shirt over my head.
You reach for my hand and
ask where I’m going.
Home,
I reply
without an excuse.
I put on my shoes.
I’m aware of your gaze
following me
across the room.
I can only assume
that you felt confused,
when I left the door cracked,
but didn’t look back.
For me,
walking away
was the right thing to do,
and said way more than words
would ever get through to you.

an EKG?

An EKG records the electrical activity of the heart.

Why is it easy to say no to some people, but not others? Why is it so easy to let go of some people, but not others? Why is it so hard to say no to somebody you thought you let go of, a long time ago?

The truth is, some people affect your life, dramatically, whether you want them to or not. And others pass by, their presence merely a sporatic blip on the radar in your memory. But the ones whose memory maintain a constant blip, an EKG reading if you will, never leave your heart.

I’m not in love with him. I don’t know that I ever was. And I don’t think I even love him. But his memory is a constant blip. Because he has affected my life so much.

Most of my friends don’t like him. In fact, most hate him. Hate is a really strong word, I know, but that’s the way they feel. I understand too.

He contacted me the other night. Text message. I hadn’t heard from him, or spoken to him in, I don’t even know how long, at least six months. I did run into him at a bar about a month ago, but tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore his presence. When he finally approached, I was cold, and then he left. I felt a twang of guilt as I watched him walk away, like I was being a bitch when he was trying to be nice, but I brushed it off, knowing that we weren’t friends. After all, why would we be?

I ignored this text message, shocked at his gall. How dare he contact me? He sent three more. He knew I’d eventually respond, I knew that, and his prudence pissed me off. The fourth message read, Are you alive? and I responded with, No, I’m not alive. Thus began an hour long stint of texting back and forth, me trying to ignore him, and him persisting. He called three times before I finally answered with “What do you want?” But no matter how hard I try to be a bitch to him, I always end up softening. He’ll say something that will make me laugh aloud, and my bitchiness melts away so slowly I hardly notice. Later on, in retrospect, I get so ticked off that he is able to do that.

What I don’t understand, is how someone can use people, they way he does, and not feel inhuman. He denies that. When I told him I only had three weeks left living here and I’d rather spend time with people who actually care about me, he acted appalled. “You think I don’t care about you? I care about you. You care about me too.” I was glaring, but said nothing. He couldn’t see me glaring over the phone, though, and broke my silence. “Come over.”

I asked him how he thought his current girlfriend would feel, knowing I was with him. “I don’t care, ” he said. I can’t say I was surprised. “You of all people know I’ve never been monogamous.” He grinned as he said that. I should have slapped him, but I didn’t. I laughed. I should have felt ashamed that I was even hanging out with him. I do, a little, but not really. It’s nobody’s business but mine. (Even though I’m blogging about it!)

He asked if I was going to stay the night. “No, I’m going home.” We’d been talking for hours, as if the time apart hadn’t gone by. “Like old times,” he said. “Remember the beach, with a bottle of pinot noir and a candle?” he asked. I smiled. Because every time I remember how we used to do that, I smile. We’d drive to the liquor store in the middle of the night, buy the wine, two plastic cups, and a candle. We’d sit on the dark beach for hours, talking and laughing and kissing, until the wine was gone. And as the candle still flickered, highlighting millions of grains of sand, we’d walk away, back to the car. I’d look back at the little flame until I was no longer able to see it, and wondered what would become of it. If it would sit next to our empty wine bottle for a few days, or if some passer-by would pick it up, and themselves wonder who had sat on the beach in the candlelight.

Before I left he asked if I would go to the movies with him the next night. “Sure, ” I replied, recognizing his empty invitation, and offering an empty acceptance.

I drove home, a little pissed off. I couldn’t help but smile, either.

I know he is going to read this. But I don’t care