Dating, How Dumb!
Easy come, easy go.
easy to say at least.
like a change in the weather and it is just the way of things: to burn into ash and kindle the next spark.
I think I see in his eyes a sadness I’ve seen before, in someone else’s. I feel the tightening on your nerves, I remember how much I hate it, love.
Hello. What’s your name? Where are you from and where are you going? What is it you’re hiding? What hunger drives you forward and what name keeps you awake at night? Will you tell me? Laughing, awkward, until it slips into something real—eye contact that lets me into the mind before me, behind the biologically inherited frame.
What do I make of myself? Who am I before you? A brush of the leg, a touch of the hand—non-intentional. Make it intentional. Do I notice, or do I pull away? Do I dare let you slip closer? Do I hold onto your words where I used to hold others?
Where did those eyes go—the ones that wanted me, what I can no longer want from others? Loss—of the way it felt to be reached for first, touched by no one else. The smell of your skin on mine. The air we pollute with breathy words, exhaled reliefs, tears left on your fingertips, stains on my notebook. A name, burning with passion—where did that go?
Do I really owe it my heart anymore? If not, why does it linger there? Naivety. We slipped stupidly around, and everyone has memories they spin on for too long. Am I spinning in circles of others, afraid to fall into arms that are not mine. What can I give that hasn’t already been taken? How can I trust your words won’t turn cold? That your eyes won’t inject poison into my dreams? Hope and what’s the use of hoping?
What’s the meaning of an extra block walked, an extra drink, the family you left behind? What do you think of me now? Do you like it? I know you do—you haven’t been around long enough to see me rot.
Where will you go? Who have you left behind? What will you think of me then? Will you move forward first and reach for me? I’ll let you, if you do—because I’ll belong to you, for however long you hold me between your fingers. But I’ll go before you drop me, before you squeeze the love out of me like he did.
I gave all my trust once, so you will never get me. That’s what he said. Is that not how it works?
It’s a game—
it’s not laughing at 3 a.m., or conversations that erase time, or promises of tomorrow whispered in a bed, restless. It’s not words that chase away sleep. And I hold so tightly to a hug because I love to let go of people. I loved tracing my name into his back as he slept, feeling his hair between my fingers, watching—knowing, even then, it wouldn’t last. And if I wake up next to someone else, will they disappoint me the way I disappointed him? When his eyes opened to a face he wasn’t dreaming about? Can love exist if only one person pushes? Can I ever let go enough to let another truly consume me? I’d rather hurt for someone else, because of someone else. I’m sick of faces that recognize me.
You, before me—what brought you here? What softened you, just for that second? You showed something eternal between the spit of normal nonsense, and it should be cherished. Can I do that for you?