I stood alone, waiting on the 28th street uptown N/R platform, accompanied by rats, hissing rails, and indecipherable echoes from the street above.
What had been a generally happy day, despite cold and tempestuous weather, suddenly underwent a trope of sorts. The paucity of human voices in the normally crowded station left me lonely and alone. Instead of just feeling the usual nucleic loneliness, encircled by multitudes of bodies, I felt singular…singular in every semantic iteration of the word.
Standing upon that platform, Brahms playing somberly between my ears and inside my head, the existential ambiance inevitably irked my consciousness.
Suddenly, I came to the realization that I might never see him again. Salient and harrowing concept, tracing memories of evasive blue eyes, everything began to break, everything began to crumble: tiles cracking, the ceiling caving, tracks combusting, train cars reducing to phantoms, rat fascia falling off splintered skeletons.
And this sadness. This resulting sadness stinking up the semi-cylindrical space, my tears flowing like that of a child, external reality decomposing by the minute, the mental minute.
This sadness. It felt like mourning the death of someone who was still alive. And though he was literally a few stops away, a phone call away, an email away, a (I miss your fingers beside mine) hypothetical three seconds away, I knew I could only rely on fortuities for corporeal evidence of his existence. Today and for the rest of my life.
And in a city like this, these kinds of probabilities are almost never on my side.
I shattered not like glass today, but more like crackling Ice
Dismantled in stillness for an intimate moment,
his warm breath utterance a catalyst in
movement and then:
Geometric fractals fractured on a wintry plane
separating piece from whole
down to disappearing
droplets running sheen across thousands of chilly pavements and then:
returning again as
risen phantoms falling,
once more upon his tastebuds
It is imperative to see how the Sunflowers sway,
like a million human hands, hungry,
for the sky-
stretching their fingers above
in arbitrary motion,
covered by the cloying morning dew.
Bees bumble blithely between,
pondering prospects of coveting
from the yellow-maned encircled faces.
But flowers are too busy for bee lips and
bee tongues and bee spit-
they are hungry,
to risk being stung.
of paper buldings
and the echoes that remained
of old friends and lovers
their features bleeding
together in his brain."
— Death Cab For Cutie
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know."
— TS Eliot
Under the burden
under the burden
the weight we carry
— Allen Ginsberg
— eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
And here you are. Broken
Mask your pain with a smile,
wear it like your favorite burgundy lipstick and
Leave him there on the corner breathing heavy.
Heaving and breathing the weight,
muffling the sounds of New York City
with his lungs-
Lungs so dry that they will crumble like toothpicks to the cracks below
his feet and
Leave him there smelling the remnants of your heart on the sidewalk,
The blood stains he will remember every time that he passes by and
Leave him there tasting all of the strength that you built brick by brick
till there was a tower too tall for him to climb,
leave him numb.
Leave him there licking up left-over courage from the ground like a dog
because he can’t ever possibly fathom a love so strong,
a love so light,
a love so free that it screams like a symphony,
that, dear girl, is the closest he will ever come to knowing you,
Smile because you are once again hungry-
because you no longer mistake someone else’s pleasure
for your own,
because your skin is crawling from the inside
out just hoping that you’ll notice it quake,
reflecting on your bathwater like sunrise.
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street."
— Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
If you’d let me I would hold you like the earth holds the moon.
I would hold you like the sun holds the earth
and envelop round in circles of you.
I would spin down your spine like a satellite
and breathe in your stars like air,
sipping in the bright shine wine-
flitting madly in the dark,
drunk and dizzy,
unravelling in the light
years knowing that I may never fully arrive
at your lips and oh-
I shiver at the thought that I might one day get there.