You don’t let go

You don’t.

The accumulation, the little gatherings. You open your arms wider to them. You hold one more, and close.

You don’t.

Fingers and slipping. Everything that falls through – you never knew how. Always scooping up the love at your feet. Until it is back again, and overflowing.

You don’t let go.

You let.

You let everything stay.

Everything stays.

You remember she said there is always room – it just expands. And you are a chasm now. Wide, wide open, and reaching.

You remember.

She said.

You don’t let go.

(This heart. It holds every thing)

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And here I am again. Forgetting. Or remembering – differently. Something softer, something sweeter always pushing through … 

Sorry?

Sorry? Am I really here again? Standing on a dark street, lip bit, trying not to cry? Am I really here, in heels too high for the slippery streets and the shaking?

Why’s it always raining when my heart gets broken? (there’s no denying – half a year got me half way there.)

And now you’ve gone and left me here?

Hell no! You knew. You know. 

And I thought with that we might take care. I thought perhaps you cared. Enough to be a better man when it comes to invitation.

See, I know where you’re wounded too (dark spirits will pull that from a conversation). I kept my touch gentlest there. And when I turned out my palms  … I understood your right to refuse them.

But it’s been a long time since someone left me so small. Off to take their better call. Leaving me an unspoken message. Alone to hear, loud and clear.

Sorry?

Sorry for taking so long to accept.

Except.

I thought you were a different kind. And that – you motherfucker – was a ‘big deal’ to me.

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Rejection might be mandatory – humiliation, never.

 

What they mean by the end

I want to pick up the phone and say hey it’s me. I want to listen to you roll every syllable together in that funny, rushed way I always adored. To hear the safety of your voice down the line and not think about anything at all. To spin a story about my day where you are still the only one I want to tell.

The bitter has been sweetened by wine and time; when I heard your name just now it made me smile. I think this might be what they mean by the end. When the hurts and the pain have gone away, how it really just comes down to this:

The sudden desire to say hey it’s me – and how the phone stays in my pocket.

Little Clicks Joanne Piechota

Image by Joanne Piechota ; Repost of this little realisation by Me

“I want you to know that I have loved you all along. And even when we’re far apart …”

Somewhere else

It begins with a small impatience.

Something about the light. Or the way it has been warm for three days straight. The consistency of it. The knowing.

So it flutters. A quickening under the skin, beginning. The desire for something more. For something less, perhaps. No matter, as long as it isn’t the same. As long as it’s different to this.

Here.

Her mother says she has gypsy blood. Something garnet red and restless, warming her veins. Like the sun setting on her horizon, or the rising of it somewhere else.

There.

There. Here.

There is no place (she’s home).

Anais Nin Restless

Somewhere, waiting

There she is, the morning of.

It is summer, and she feels it. The winter sadness has been shaken, sloughed from her skin, and she’s lighter now, present. Waking without the ache, without the anchor thud dragging her down.

There she is. Happy and forgetful in her getting ready, this morning of.

Ready: Prepared. Willing. Equipped.

The readiness is all, they say, but at this minute she thinks she has escaped her fate. She thinks one can survive it. She does not know, as she takes that last mirror look, as she smoothes her hair and tongues her teeth for lipstick stains. She does not know that life can change in other ways, that there are slower, softer ways of starting.

She does not know what’s out there, waiting.

There. Here. There she is.

She’s out the door, and the sky is blue, and she’s humming along, not knowing his name. She’ll hear it today, this name, for the very first time. Unaware of the ghosts he’ll soon gather, of the tracks and stopping just ahead.

She doesn’t know that she’s begun. And that he is her somewhere, waiting.

Walt Whitman Poetry