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It’s a matter of days. A matter of hours. A matter of minutes. A matter of seconds. We rewind the tape. We walk backwards. We take our clothes off the floor, we pull away. We come together. Night becomes day. We subtract decisions. We unsay what we said. We stop treading lightly. I stop protecting myself. You stand just beyond me. We remake the bed. We leave our stomaches empty. My heart stays full. You ignore. I pretend. Your eyes. The touch and go. The words you drop on the surface of a still pond. The ripple effect. The between the lines. The hopeful. Your devastation. My wanting. My breath. Your hands. We stop. We stay. We stay. We stay. You leave. I stay.

There are alot of things I’m too much of.  But this “too much” leaves me wondering and waiting if this is the last time.  I wish I could be the person to turn it off.  That welling up, that thickness at the back of your throat when you know it’s coming.  

There is one thing I noticed when I first moved to New York.  

No one cares if you cry.  They don’t chastise you for it, they don’t voice concern.  They may hold their gaze in your direction a little longer, pretending that they are skimming the ads in the subway cars, hiding behind sunglasses, picking at their fingernails, an invisible scab, adjusting buttons while you blink back the blurry world.

So sometimes when I can’t choke it back, a chair in my favorite coffee shop is where I need to be with the pieces in front of me, trying to figure out how to rearrange them, put them back together so my hear starts beating again in a different rhythm.

This is the art of starting over.


But I’m still getting there. Even in the days where “good enough” is not enough. Even when I can’t look into a mirror. I know I’m on my way. Fleeting feelings.

I heard your name first.  I heard it first and thought, “seriously, that can’t actually be his name.”  But it was.  And I was curious.  So I did what all curious girls do about and elusive boy. 

I shrugged you off.

And then there you were.

I hardly care what they say.  You hardly care and know what you want.

So I want to find some dark corner where I have to feel my way to you.  Where I pretend there is no tomorrow and the only thing that matters is the color of your taste, the hard places of your body and the way you slam me around.

Control has no purpose in blank spaces, in the rhythm of breath and bodies, in the pulse of streetlights beyond the window and how I almost hope that someone sees me pressed against the glass.

What is it you want?



One word carried, held, worn, weighed down.