I remember when I was waiting for this book to be released, years ago, when I was working at a bookstore. The stock manager, or whatever her actual title was, set one copy aside specially for me. Its lived in various bags far more than it’s designated place on my shelf, with a beat up cover and water stained pages to prove it.
I was on a vacation the last time I was reading it, while we were together. And lying in the sun, studying its contents, I thought of you. We’d discussed the author before, I’d discussed the book with you before. So when I came back, I gave it to you.
Temporarily, at least in intention.
The time before the last time I saw you, you had it in your bag. You were bringing it to work with you – you were definitely reading it. And that made me happier than I could say.
Do I bring this up now? How? It feels seems petty and unnecessary. Reopening a wound that should be closed by now, and I’m still picking and re-picking at the scab. It feels both like an excuse to talk to you and an excuse to make sure we never talk again. So long as you have that book, I have an excuse to message you. Have a reason to reach out.
And again, it also feels petty and childish as all hell to ask for it back now, after so much time has passed. And I’m afraid of what would happen if I did. If I’m ready for the closure of you.
But really, honestly, I want my book back. I want it back on my shelf and the ability to carry it with me again. I want to revisit sections and reread favorite parts.
I don’t want to want to reach out to you. I don’t want to have this idea in the back of my mind. I simultaneously want you to leave it where I can grab it without seeing you, and sit down for a drink with you, and have the discussion we should have had months ago.
The discussion about more than just the book. About the things you still admit to me you don’t know, or rather, haven’t let yourself think about long enough to figure out.
I suppose, at some point, I’ll simply buy another copy. Let you be, and accept in my heart these are the things I must let go. But I’d bet it will stay pristine for far longer than the original.
I hadn’t seen him in about five years when we were at that wedding. We got through the ceremony, to the reception, and we were sat next to each other at the table. And I think it took a grand total of three minutes before we were balls deep in a discussion of something political, or literary.
Probably both.
And we laughed, and we danced and had a great time. At one point a couple of the girls went to the bathroom, and while we were touching up our makeup one said to me,
“You know, everyone is betting you guys are hooking up tonight.”
And I know they meant it with all the kindness in the world and I know they meant it from a place of thinking he and I would be good for each other and I know they said it because we have chemistry and blah blah fucking blah.
You know what also requires chemistry? The best kinds of friendship.
The truth is, and it’s been discussed with him, many a time; if we dated, we would fucking kill each other.
To say nothing of the fact that we are wholly incompatible. We want fundamentally different things, in our partners, in our futures. We want to be in different places in the country, we want to experience life in similar and yet completely dissimilar ways.
He came to spend the weekend with me on what would have been his wedding day. And you know what we did? Smoked cigars, drank a shit ton of whisky, and talked about books. Because he’s one of my best friends, and that’s what best friends do.
I really, truly, do not understand when (cishet) girls and guys get jealous when their partner has friends of the opposite sex.
Seriously guys? Do you just want your girlfriend to be with her female friends all day? More than likely, you will either end up in an argument over why you haven’t gotten her a big ass diamond yet (ITS BEEN 6 MONTHS, CHAD. WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?!) Or, she’ll dump your sorry ass because she’s been surrounded by the friends who won’t tolerate your shit.
And girls, do you not want him to have the friend that he can go to and say hey it’s Lauren’s birthday and I have no idea what to get her please help me what’s the difference between a size 6 and a size M? (So much. So much is different.)
We need balance and perspective. And that balance and perspective does not need to include romantic chemistry.
This friend and I, we’ve known each other for coming up 13 years. And we’re there for each other, we support each other. We edit each other’s writing and know not to coddle the other. We’re comfortable enough to actually talk about how we’re feeling and when we’re having a bad day, which isn’t something we do for many people. And so believe me when I say, we also know we’re never going to date.
But I will happily wing-woman him, give him advice and brutal honesty when he needs it. And he will tell me when I need to raise my standards because the current fuck boy is treating me like shit, or when I should be patient and wait for explanations.
I had a phone call the other day, with that same group of friends from the wedding, and I mentioned his name. And one said, you guys are definitely the “if we’re not married by 40, we’ll marry each other” friends.
We’re not, though. We’re the friends who say, your partner needs to like me and my partner needs to like you so when we’re stuck in the old folks home together and we’re still debating trade policy they know to continue on with their bridge game because we’ll be here a while.
Your choice, not mine. You have admitted it’s not my fault
So I can’t tell you to your face, or even over a message
The song is beautiful. I’ve told you that before, months ago, when I heard you first perform it. But. I’m happy for you. I’m happy for the show and your single and.
Yeah
It hurts I can’t tell to you this. When you’ve told me I did nothing wrong. When you were the one that gave me apologies.
We were close, I do believe that. You lied and told the truth in equal measure.
I wish I didn’t care that you still look at my pictures. I wish I didn’t care that you blocked me from yours.
I want to share it, tell the world how amazing you are
It’s one of the first things they tell you, it’s repeated and repeated and repeated. By the instructors, the textbooks, the videos.
Keep your head up.
Because the wind is blowing against you, even with your helmet you can feel it. The throttle is beneath your hand.
Eyes on the horizon.
Your first time riding a motorcycle, and it’s terrifying. I don’t care who you are. Even on a tiny little 125cc engine, you feel it go, how little it takes, and it’s goddamn terrifying to have that kind of power. You’re running through exercises, trying to remember everything they taught you. Trying to remember how to shift gears and how far out your bike needs the clutch and where the fuck are the rear brakes, anyway?
And they tell you, don’t look at the ground, when that’s all you want to do.
I tried this, after the first day of class, to look up more when I was driving my car, walking around the city, etc. My posture has been dreadful for years, and it’s only thanks to 2 years of bodywork and ballet that it’s starting to feel less grotesque to hold my head where it’s supposed to naturally be.
That being said, I still, far more often than not, look down more than ahead.
And trying it, the wind blows at my eyes, making them water, making my left eye stream, (it’s never the right, for unknown reasons, like only half of my brain is experiencing some traumatic event). It pulls against where my triceps want to go and makes the constant pounding across my forehead worse. And it feels unnatural, like I’m staring everyone and everything down in some perverse contest of self importance.
All that is to say, you remind me of riding a motorcycle.
Because I am fucking terrified of everything you make me feel.
I told you this, one bourbon filled night, that you scare me, that having this love for you is frightening beyond measure. And you held me, my head against your chest, and told me of course it was, the fear was a part of it, and you understood. You were scared, too.
Do you remember the night, lying on your living room floor, you looked at me and said, “I didn’t think anyone could tie you down,” ? And I told you, “I want to call you mine.” The cutest, most wonderful smile spread across your face, and you pulled me down to kiss you.
I knew, I was in for you.
But you know that you are a first for me. The first “I love you,” The first of so many emotional steps. And those are much, much bigger than any physical thing we could possibly do.
You ride on a bike, and the wind is flying past you, and you’re holding onto a machine and trying to remember to look up, to not be afraid, when in truth it is new and horrifying and why did anyone think you could do this and give you a license to do this and let you loose on city streets?
I have survived you leaving me once before. And I keep hearing things about this girl who had you then, and try to keep my bitterness at bay. But the more I hear and the deeper into you I fall, the less restrained I become.
I hear it in your voice, in their voices, when you all talk about her.
Everytime you say she called, or you have to tread on eggshells because of her.
I hear the hurt in you. And the more I care about you the angrier I get. Not just at her, but at you. For choosing someone you knew would hurt you again, and again, and again. And in that process, hurting me too.
I understand, if you had been happy, then we would not be ‘us’ now. But I think that would be easier to swallow than knowing we both went through hell just to wind up in the same place.
Keep your eyes on the horizon. That’s where you find your balance.
Except, we’re not in the same place. I became somehow simultaneously more jaded, and more vulnerable to you. Found the ability to be open and tell you that you, who you are and what you give me, is what I want. Is what I’ve been wanting. And you not just found your way back to me, but are even more of what you were and who you are, and have opened yourself to me too.
I love you, and I know you love me too. We can say this to each other, now.
Look up, look up, look up.
I remember the first time, on the back of your Harley, holding on to you for dear life, knowing you wouldn’t let anything happen to me. And you told me afterwards, that with the seat placed as it was, I didn’t have to hold on, I could let go.
I will survive, if you leave me again. I will not cause scenes, or chase you down, or show you any of the hurricane that would be inside me. But I would also never come back again. I think a part of you knows that. But I can’t help remembering, when you give me glimpses to a future that might be ours, that this is not new to you. These feelings that are so true, promises made in a moment that could disappear as fast as it came into being.
I hate that I still feel this way. That I can’t let these feelings go to just believe in you, and in us.
I want to feel the engine beneath me and soar up the hills. I want to look out to the sky and enjoy the ride, without fear, without a sense of impending doom.
Loving you has been less scary, with every passing day.
So my book, Dancing With The Shadows, is now available as an audiobook!
I’m really excited about it, the narrator, Colin Ricks, did such a great job and it was a fun collaboration.
I have some promo codes available for the US and UK audible stores, so if you want it for free (in exchange for a review?) hit me up in the comments and I’ll send you one.
Does the liquor bring my name to your lips The taste of smoke The sweetness of the oak Does it remind you of me
Does drinking make you think of me Of your whispers in my ear My skin under your hands My softness against your strength
Because I think life has done me an unkindness In that those people that meant the most Came back, eventually In one form or another The grief both dissipated and compounded by a never ending presence
And time flows like honey All at once, more quickly than you anticipate Then slowly, drip by drip And I’m watching the end of the spoon, waiting, as it crystallizes before my eyes
Waiting for your message Your call Your anything
Why am I only this eloquent when I’m not sober The words, the emotions, buried Like the French long forgotten in that December so far past
Je voudrais parler avec toi Je voudrais passer de temps avec toi Parce que tu me manques
And I know you will come back Eventually But you know I will leave I have left you before Forgotten you in summer nights Shut you against the cold of this city
So I’m left with that song The lick of the guitar The taste of rye an assault against my throat Your name on the tip of my tongue And swallowing it down and down and down
And pretending I don’t miss you Until you appear again, with that simplest of questions “How have you been?”
You are like an itch in the back of my skull A place I can not scratch without you there No matter how much I pretend I’m getting over you
And why am I still sitting in this bar, waiting for you to look at me and say you want to go home.
I’m listening to your friend’s girlfriend talk about poetry and how classical music is more legitimate than others and speak of her nihilism so that you don’t have to deal. She’s talking to me about her art as if it means anything that she only writes in moleskins so you can play your goddamn pool game and I’m just sitting here like.
The fuck is wrong with me.
Because I want to leave. I want to leave and go home and remember what it feels like to cry.
What the fuck have you done to me.
I felt better when I was around you. I felt whole, I felt like a better, calmer, more fun, more relaxed version of myself But today I feel like I’m trapped in the spin cycle of a washer Wrung out like a rag, twisted and misshapen
You asked me I don’t understand how I’m not hurting you But right now, you are. I feel like hell.
And I did this to myself And I’m doing this to myself the longer I stay The longer I let myself remain in this place where I am just inherently unhappy
You didn’t want me here I can see that Can you tell me to go home? Give me something to do other than chaperone for the people you don’t like Telling me to order your drinks, watch your shit, take your photos
Fuck
Why can’t I walk out the door Why can’t I leave without saying goodbye Make you see I am the farthest fucking thing from okay
How is it your friends know more about my life than you do People I adore, who will be gone the second I develop the self-respect to say no, I deserve more
It is so inherently fucked That you told me you hate yourself So you don’t want to commit yourself to me And I hate myself so much But I just want to commit myself to you
I don’t want to hate myself I just want you to talk to me like a fucking human being And that one thing I’d asked you for To tell me when you’re done To tell me if you’re leaving me for someone you loved You can’t do.
So now, I sit here, rereading through these words, remembering my drunken self writing them and wishing they were more melodramatic than they were
But this is the truth
I thought I could handle your heartbreak and I can’t I hate how much I want you I want to be stronger, and I’m not. You told me you would hurt me, and you have.
It’s a street sign that looks different. A shop sign that’s changed. The renovations have been redone. There’s construction lining blocks upon blocks that warble your senses of direction.
And you come back, and you come back, and you come back
And suddenly, it’s not your city anymore
But you don’t think on this, as you arrive. You don’t think of what has changed and what is no longer there Because you’re being questioned in a customs line You’re being told these things flat out.
And if this isn’t your home, where do you go? Because there isn’t here. It never will be, it doesn’t want to be. You don’t want it to be.
And maybe it’s not so much that you’re missing your home, as that home no longer exists. It was a fleeting moment in time you can not go back to
Really, would you want to? To forget everything you have learned, everything you have done, and go back to the person you were yesterday? Just think of what your bar tab would look like.
And you can long for what is gone, but maybe You should not dwell on the feeling of your heart split in two But rather,
Can you extend your heart to somewhere new? Can you love what this has become, and what that is now?
And one day, can you wake up when you arrive where you are going and say This is now mine, too.
That I’m suddenly reminded of things I thought were gone
Of that night in your garage Of you holding me steady, your hands on my knees, my hips, as I try to balance, reaching for something high above me Of the feeling of your smile
I don’t want you back I don’t want you back I don’t want you back
I hear a song,
And we’re back on your couch We’re doing nothing, together You’re telling me you like my legs Your roommate is making us drinks
Four months after you left I started seeing Someone Else. And he made me happy, for a moment And when he told me what you didn’t think to
When I felt the crack and saw him falling through I held on like he was a man thrown overboard Desperately trying to pull him back to me When he’d wanted to jump in the first place
He wasn’t what you were But I tried to convince myself he was Because I couldn’t do it again Couldn’t have the same reason twice in a row Couldn’t be the inbetween
The rebound
The pause button
Again.
These things have been repeated in my mind, in my words, for so long, it feels meaningless to even try to write them out
Not that you ever would
But
You could come back to me, tell me you’re sorry
But I would want to say no.
How could I trust you again? I can’t live in fear of your mistakes becoming reoccurring nightmares
I woke up this morning And I don’t know why I thought of you
It’s been over a year since I’ve seen your face And I never told you then, and I certainly won’t tell you now But I loved you I want my love back I want my time and my secrets and my vulnerable words whispered in the dark
I don’t want to erase you But I need your ghost disappear Vanish under the cover of a smoke bomb And leave no trace of itself behind
