Love | Lies | Lattes

"I desire the things that will destroy me in the end." — Sylvia Plath

Drunken Conversations Vol. VII

“You can’t give me what I want from you.”

“I know. It’s painfully obvious.”

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7:57pm | Writer’s Block

I think about you

every second of the day.

“Please empty my thoughts,”

I cry and I pray.

I write with my heart,

but you took it away.

I try to put it in a poem,

but find nothing to say.

The words fill my mind –

oh, how I wish you would stay.

I’ll leave you alone now,

I’ll find my own way.

 

Workaholic

I used to work long hours because there was nothing calling me home; no pets to feed, no significant other, no family. I worked hard, literally, to forget how indefinitely lonely I was.

4:12 am

It’s a curse to be such an innately happy personality trapped inside a realistic, protective, masochistic, untrusting, and skeptical mind.

You’re unhappy, and people don’t believe you. Because you smile. Even when you cry.

7:23 pm

I knew I was masochistic,

long before I knew you.

As if I try not to let myself forget it,

I arduously cling to our beautiful past,

our painfully impossible future,

your separated presence.

Detour

I am a dirt path you didn’t mean to turn onto,
a one-way street too narrow for other vehicles to pass beside.
No way to turn around, you could only keep going.
And while driving through, you were captivated by sceneries you would’ve otherwise missed,
Bold hues and untouched beauty.
Things you’ve never imagined, that you never knew existed.
And you never felt so alive.
Until you hear the busy roads,
the freeway calling you back to the destination you were originally seeking.
You drive on,
Back on schedule,
As if the time spent with me
Was no longer than a detour.
And almost as instantly as you found me,
You leave me.
Just a vision in the rearview mirror,
Until suddenly I am no more than a memory.
And you continue on,
And you get to where you needed to go.

10:39 pm

Everyone around us can see it.
We think we’re slick and sly,
but I think our friends are just
humoring us.
This is a joke.
How could they not see the tension,
the chemistry,
the raw magnetism?
A third party observer once asked
what it was that we were,
seeing, obviously, it wasn’t mere friends.
What are we?
Well?
My guess is we are the punchline
to life’s cruel joke.
We are two beings,
one soul,
no beginning nor end.
We are infinity,
we are destiny,
we are nothing.

12:08 am

Please, I beg you,

just forget me.

For I have not the strength

and will

to do it on my own.

You are my heart.

Rip it from my chest,

take it far away.

The pain is too great,

and I cannot bear the ghost of you

any longer.

Moving On

What else can I do besides go on with my life?

We always knew it was going to end. We knew the expiration date. And for a brief moment, we froze time. We laughed in the face of the future, and tried to enjoy what we had left, at maximum capacity, before it would come hurtling to its inevitable fate.

We knew it wasn’t going to last. So we had to make it count.

And now the end has come, and how does it feel? Well, it feels sort of like limbo. Everything that I imagined it would feel like, it has, and yet it hasn’t. It’s almost bittersweet. We’re not what we used to be anymore. In fact, we are nothing. Time bested us, and the future had the last laugh. But I’ll never forget our last few months, when we were everything. The world, and the stars, and the atoms in between.

Three Words

I couldn’t say it. I tried, but my non-committal habits silenced me, as much as I wanted to shout it into the almost-morning. I kissed him again instead.

“I have to go,” he half-whispered, reluctant to pull away. But he didn’t pause as he started walking towards the gate, knowing that his will to leave was already too weak.

I stood on the deck, watching him disappear. Click. The gate door closed. Footsteps fading. I reprimanded my inability to speak my mind. How often did I want to tell him, and how many chances I had lost. Now he was leaving for his trip, unaware of my plans to leave him in my past. This was my last chance to tell him, one last time.

Climbing down the porch steps, running barefoot in the dirt, I made it to the gate door and whipped it open, ready to run to him, stop him, tell him. But he was already out of sight. The moment had evaporated, and disappointment filled me like lead. I heard his car engine ignite in the distance and, defeated, I closed the gate door and walked back to my house with nothing but a heavy heart and muddy feet.