Another chance to get our high from the powdered dust of dreams, from digging desperately, getting closer to the voice of the demons we buried just yesterday, breaking nails and curfews to save the skins we can’t live without.
Another chance at making a home, choosing colors for our ceilings, choosing the sides we will sleep on, choosing not to be the ones we have always been. Another chance, another precious child to be broken, another angel dress to be painted red waiting for our hands, for our tasteless kiss. Choosing everything that leads us to lives that couldn’t possibly have been ours, couldn’t have been so wrong.
I know we are the only ones who can give each other chances. Chances – that we are so fond of. But do we need to call it love?
Though we have tried and tried and have run out of things that can be fixed. Do we have to call this happiness just because we have been told we must?
Do we have to ruin every word, every feeling that we have not felt yet, just because we fear we may never feel them otherwise.
Her floor had always been the color of the season I remember this, only when I step into the mess of her life. The spring issues lay scattered like the flowers The pink, red, yellows, and greens, women who only know youth, women who only grow younger the kind of woman she wanted to be (what a small impossible dream) and she almost is. And now that she can never change would she be happy? When/if she comes across her own lifeless eyes in the missing posters would she be glad to be one of the “sad popular”? I shatter the home of her missing goldfish in my haste efforts to pick them up and put them out of sight- the bundles of glossy paper that my eyes can’t handle. I try to put them away, wanting to throw them away now that she wouldn’t mind, now that she won’t yell at me or anyone for taking away too much of her. I want to try it. i want to try, so she has no option but to stop me. “let’s leave her in peace” tells me my moral compass and my grief. “i don’t want to show her the kind of respect that only dead deserve” shouts back my anger and my love. I drop the heaviest bag in this world on her rain soaked bed. Her last dress, her last chocolate wrapper, her last bus ticket, her last mistake, her last breath everything spilling out, everything ruining the spring that I dreamed for her along with her.
Was it 5 years ago, or 6 that we all sat together looking at the bright beginning of another series of setbacks that we were becoming. The coldness of the wood, the ruffle of papers, the moment before we learned to truly hate ourselves.
I miss that.
As we stood waiting in line for something to take away everything we were just beginning to see, I remember thinking, “I wish I could spend my youth here. In this moment, with these people. I am nothing to them, they are nothing to me. But we are good for each other. This can never be made again.” At that moment I knew they will make my heart ache for a long time.
In the years that followed I saw them, the people who carried the faces of the ones I liked enough not to love. “What’s wrong?” I wanted to ask them but all I could do was smile and let my smile tell them “I will see you for what you were. At least that I can do for you. The beauty of your innocence and hope I will remember it forever.”
I am tempted to walk into the night
and look for you
who has always stood
on the other side of my fear,
waiting for me everyday,
carrying a flower of hundred petals
petals that wither one by one
like the clock that marks days not hours,
days that otherwise would have been too long
if something didn’t tell us
again and again
that not much time has passed
and not much time is left.
Though by the waters of sorrow
that reach till my chest,
I can tell that it would be too late
and too futile
even if we meet now,
when all the happiness
that we came with has been spent
by our imprudent youth.
But still even if it is late
I want to come to you,
Even if I am broken
I want to be yours.
Even if for a day.