I met you on a rainy day, mid July. And you held my hand and we talked about flowers and poetry, and I learned that you held all my favorites close to your heart. (e.e. cummings and alcohol drunk in the rain)
And I wrote you some many pieces of poetry that you swam in them and every time I saw your grin that you didn't try to hide, I grinned too.
I learned that you were always eager to discover new things, so I took you on adventures that lasted for hours under umbrellas so your hair didn't get wet-- I thought you'd appreciate the sentiment. But you threw it away, and I watched as the rain dripped off the tip of your nose and onto the concrete. (and I smiled when you couldn't see)
There's no more rain, but sometimes I remember the day we danced hands turned up to the sun, and how the beat of our heart was the hum of music we didn't need. (and it makes me so happy to know you remember it too)
you picked a dancer because you liked the way she moved--you liked that she never stopped. you picked a dancer because her arms were tiny but they wrapped around you with such strength you didn't have the heart to push her away. she tiptoes everywhere and you think that's cute, but what's cuter is the way her tiny nose wrinkles when she's upset, right before she's going to cry. and maybe that's a little morbid, that you think that's cute-- but what the hell, her eyes glow all the time and they're the lamp that leads you out of hell.
you picked a dancer because she finds herself in everything, and spins metaphors like pirouettes, one two three-- and you think that it's amazing that she stands on her toes. she likes that you listen to her ramble about ballets that no one cares about, but you like that she talks to you, because she never talks, she only speaks with her soul and you wonder how someone can do that and not go mad.
you picked a dancer because she has the fingers of a piano player but threw away the sheet music to feel the song instead, and rule breakers and bad girls are you favorite but you think she might be your favorite of all, because she breaks the rules of poetry inside ballet and does it while her heart is beating faster than it ever does when you're with her.
you picked a dancer because she likes laying on the floor and she likes lying in the grass even better, because there's more room to stretch and the stars are infinite. she counts everyone and you like that because that takes dedication, and you like that the thing she's most dedicated too is five seconds of glory in a terribly boring world. she likes that you come to every show and you bring her a book instead of flowers, because you remember her saying on a hazy afternoon that flowers were overdone and her life's library was more important.
you picked a dancer because she remembers every irrelevant moment that you always forget because that's the way her brain works. you picked a dancer because she reads into your motions because she assumes that just like her you speak with your body-- and you like that she gets more comfort out of fingers touching fingers than out of words, since words make you nervous and she works better in silence. she likes the way you know when she's going to break down and how you open your arms and wait for her to find you in her personal hell, no matter how long it takes.
you picked a dancer because her voice tells you things that her body already said, like she remembers you don't understand her language written in water colors and brings herself to reality for you. you like the way she remembers you're there when she's off day dreaming about nothing and everything, and she smiles and grips your hand because she forgets you weren't there. you like her imagination that swims through every day muck and finds the worst and best things buried in a world that you thought maybe didn't have any diamonds anymore. you picked a dancer because she can wear a tiara and still have looks to kill when she screws up her peki because she was distracted by the way the music painted stars around her.
you picked a dancer because she is everything you ever wanted and you don't understand how you got so lucky, because she picked you too.
i stitched your heart back together for you but the stitches dissolved and you fell apart again and this time i didn't know how to fix it [i'm not a surgeon i'm only a friend, and friends can only do so much] and i told you so and you shook your head and said that you had a back up plan and i knew without your words that meant too many pills and a bottle of vodka [and i couldn't stop you because friends can only do so much and you're a stubborn bastard] so i watched you try to leave and watched you fail because pills can only work if you take too many [and you took just enough]
i visited you in the hospital and the gown was white but you were whiter and i don't think whiter is a word but all i know is i fell against your side [and prayed] and you patted my head and said God hear me and he would take care of you so i didn't have too anymore [and i watched you grow without me and it hurt me inside]
i guess we changed places you and i and i hate myself for wanting to go back to when you needed me [and i didn't need you]
i wrote twenty seven poems and in my head, i dedicated them all too you. they were all scribbles and they all stung my eyes because of the truth in them. i'm getting tired, my dear, of my vulture thoughts circling you, and of how my heart seems to be thinning out at the seams, i think it might be pulled apart if i breathe too deeply. so i mix sleep with vodka and pretty blue pills and see if i can come up with a concoction that makes it to where i can sleep, but not really, because i still have dreams.
i wrote twenty seven poems for you and every single one was exhausting and they hurt deep and i don't think i'm going to do it anymore. your time to come back is running out because i'm mending my heart and walls and i'm not going to let you back in when they're up. i'm done watching you tear my heart up with your scissor hands. i didn't know my heart was paper thin till i met you.
i wrote you twenty seven poems, but i'll be dammed if i write twenty seven more.
You got me drunk on starry words and rough lips that kissed with alarming indecency and fantastic passion. And I hung on every moon you threw up into the sky and you thought that was cute.
You sang me poetry in songs that I'd known for years but I suddenly held them a lot closer, and you pulled me a lot closer and your hands weren't rough like your lips, they were soft and they traced paths on my map of a body I didn't even know existed but you lit them up with a lamp and traced the trip from my shoulder to hip to neck and then you kissed my neck and I think I might have passed out.
I hung your key around my neck and I wore it like a badge of honor all the way home and you kissed me goodbye and ran away and I didn't think twice because I was floating away on the cloud you set me on, patted my head and told me to be a good girl. Four days later you still have me wrapped around your little finger and I think I might be hooked on the poisonous drink you poured down my throat, liquid stars that tasted like heaven and burnt all the way down. I want it again and I still have teeth marks on my lips, and I feel them with my tongue but it's not the same as the sky that covered me and I think I might be hooked.
What are you supposed to do, when you find yourself falling into a hole that you didn't know was there? And no one tosses a rope in after you, to save you?
i hung a lamp in my window and prayed you'd come home, and that you would be more than candle wax, that you would glow so that i knew you were alive safe from every time they whispered things that didn't make sense but you found yourself believing.
i pushed back the curtains so you could see into my bedroom see me welcoming you with open arms and promises to chase away the bad dreams when they crept up on you and you didn't notice.
i spread out a blanket i knew you would love, all color and warmth and thought that maybe welcoming you home with words would be too much maybe you just needed touch and lips to grip when the darkness flooded your eyes.
i didn't turn off the lamp for two months, and the light faded in the window pane and i wondered why you didn't come home but i still believed you were lost in the woods of your head and when you escaped you'd fall to my doorstep and cry that you were sorry but you were home.
i took the lamp out of the window, and that night you stumbled and banged on the glass and begged me to let you in and when i didn't you threw yourself through and cut yourself on the little shards and i tried really hard not to care, and threw the lamp at your feet and watched the rings of fire set your teeth on edge, but you still wanted to try and i said no and hid in the covers and huddled there and waited for you to come for me, but you didn't.
you come and visit me sometimes and every time my breath feels like cold shards of glass in my throat like the blood stained diamonds that are still at the foot of the window so maybe if you enter again, you'll cut your feet and learn that i'm a fence and you don't have a key to the lock i'm wearing around my neck but you always were clever and when you come back, you come through my door all smiles and heartaches and confusion.
i don't think it's fair to me, to put me through all this and then throw me like i'm a rag doll because i landed in a puddle and i'm soggy and wet, and every time i get dry you come back. and that's not fair at all.
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