sorting through the words.
fuck their reindeer games.
i've put too much of this pressure on myself to be a big girl and deal. this is supposed to be the time of my life, and i'm staring off, not paying much attention to all the fun i'm supposed to be having.
fumbling with my fingers and the cigarette between them, i can tell you, "my mom used to say that life wasn't fair. i had to deal with the hand i was dealt. settle for the opportunities given to me. thankful if i had enough friends ... one for each finger ... that they'd fill up a hand, one to always hold. well, i've got four, now." and i'll fiddle with my hair, blink back tears, shift my feet, "i know, you don't really know me, and not many do, but ... i feel like i wasn't dealt a full hand, got kind of left out on the last card, you know?"
and you'll smile that sympathetic smile and nod you're little 'i know' nod because i haven't said a word, just blinked my lashes as i looked into your eyes, spouting metaphors and reducing language to twitches of light.
"i never expected it to go this way."
"we never do."
"but things go as expected, just not as planned."
"perhaps you're confusing your plans with your expectations."
"maybe."
"maybe you're just sad?"
"maybe i'm just confused about being sad. i don't think i ever knew what sadness was before."
"i have a feeling."
"don't we all."
and conversations go on in my head, morphing my failure to communicate with my need to express my loneliness.
"i didn't know how bad it was until i saw him." and you turn your head down. "that's when i lost hope."
"i was trying to fool myself for that entire two weeks."
"i know. i didn't want to take that hope away from you."
"it takes a stronger person than i am."
"no, it takes a stronger person than you think you are."
and they're all mixed into my attempt to puzzle through this house in my mind. i spend these evenings talking with less than words and more than muffled memories.
"i thought a lot about him today. wondering."
"yeah?" and i look at that piece of hair grazing your eyelid.
"what would he have said about all of this?"
"he would have shook his head and said, 'man, kids, you really know how to fuck some shit up.' and then he would have laughed."
"you think?"
"i'm pretty sure."
and these tiny pieces of drama and fickle fighting words are wearing all of us down when we should be busy loving.
the fine-tuned monstrosity bubbling over into i-won't-believe-it tones and ridiculous evenings avoiding the true nature of connection.
we're all trying. we're all hurting. the relevance of pain scorches us through the daily forgiveness that it takes to be the bigger man about who fucked who over.
but these conversations, they're out wandering alone, pondering when you'll come back to me through sandstorms and these small mirages, all of you.
"sometimes, we might forget that he misses us, too."
"i know," you whisper.
and i'll look at my tense hands, "but that doesn't stop it from hurting."
"nothing will."
