Except it never goes away, does it? This feeling of missing pieces. Loosed-leaf paper dancing in the visible billowed wind as the fan scans the heated bedroom. It’s 12 p.m. and I taste your sweat on my lips, the tip of my tongue swollen from the thirst of you. || Faltering at the edges, staring at stars. Your eyes. Your skin. The waves of your hair. Reminiscing the six-in-the-morning thoughts that run through my mind like night stallions chasing the mares. || Your love: a mixed tape the car stereo ate; a sell-by-date; batteries not included; rough around the edges; scentless potpourri. || Heated weather. Sweat stains on the sheets. The scratches on my arms. || We were each others first disappointments.
After all these years, I’m still that boy who stumbles over his words.
Nothing feels real in these moments. Staring at the face in the mirror, this familiar stranger whose eyes are bagged and drooping. Wisps of gray hair blending into the dark. It’s one of those dissociative moments. At least something in the hypnagogia realm. And my mouth cracks open. The question on my lips is, “Who are you?” But before any sound comes out, the alarm on my bed blares, shaking me awake. A dream. All of it. A dream. I am seventeen years old. Outside breeze slips pass the curtain of my window, carrying with it the scent of rain. It’s expected. A drizzle. Something not uncommon in the month of January. The cold front they were expecting must’ve come in early, sometime in…
I can’t write. I don’t know understand the struggle. Yeah, there’s the whole not having written anything creative in ages, but it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all during this hiatus. There’s this blog. There’s work writing. There’s my journal. There’s writing my short intros during poetry readings at [redacted]. Yet, here I am tonight. Just rambling on this online journal after several failed attempts at something creative. Maybe it’s just the day? Maybe I can get something done tomorrow at work? Who knows. I doubt it, though. I have way too much on my plate this week, so there won’t be any me-time during my working hours. I’m just glad I finished my riddles Saturday.
I remember there was a time when writing came to me second nature. When I’d wake up in the middle of the night and rummage my nightstand for my notepad and just scribble thoughts down in the dark. That doesn’t happen anymore. I think the last thing I scrawled in my journal for creative purposes was a rough “sketch” of some dialogue shared with my boss. Well, she shared with me. (No, I’m not gonna indulge those details here. But if I should ever use it in a story, she’ll recognize it immediately.)
Even this post wasn’t meant for this subject. Originally, I was going to talk about Jenny, about the poetry reading, and my reading goals for the year (subject wise).
I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl who’s still around the morning after. We broke up a month ago, and I grew up – I didn’t know I’d be around the morning after It’s always been wait and see A happy day and then you’ll pay And feel like shit the morning after But now I feel changed around And instead of falling down I’m standing up the morning after Situations get fucked up and turned around sooner or later I could be another fool or an exception to the rule You tell me the morning after. Crooked spin can’t come to rest I’m damaged bad at best She’ll decide what she wants I’ll probably be the last to…