Stale Cereal

I.
 

Muted colors
swooning on a new summer wind,
air so humid that I drink the moisture.

As the summer liquor pours,
I take the glass it offers me.

Just one more sip.
Top off my glass.
I am feeling very thirsty today.

Through my nectar-muddled euphoria,
I know.
 

II.
 

He is a scribble.
He is rough edges,
burnt, inky paper,
and uncertainty.

Perhaps he might be finished one day.
He might be someone's masterpiece.
But now, he is a sketch,
scratchy pencil lines
and warped proportions.

Who says beauty must be perfect?
 

III.
 

A day so extraordinary,
I will remember it through smudged perception.

I don't need him,
but I want him.
I want to taste his smile,
feel the warmth of his skin,
breathe the air he exhales.

We munch cheap food
and listen to bland radio stations.
Yes, I know you play hit songs,
but I'd rather not hear that one again.
Won't you try something new?

The sun bids us a hesitant farewell,
and with my salty lips,
I touch his salty lips
and try something new.
 

IV.
 

Light slipping down my spine,
trickling through my wrists
and the bird-bones of my ankles.

There is no air,
there is only breathing.
There is no time,
there is only now.

there have been others before this,
but this is a first.

It is only a kiss,
but I know it is also an end.

And in the tired sweat of summer
with my windows rolled down all the way,
I sing nonsense as I drive home.
 

V.

My sheets are clammy,
much chillier than they should be.
My scrubbed toes feel filthy against the cotton.

Think of the memory.
The memory is a lullaby.

I do,
but I can't help but understand its frailty
because summer has died
and I haven't spoken to him in days.

I have used the memory too much,
worn it out,
and like the blue jeans I recently discarded,
it is overly frayed
and becoming a useless thing.

VI.
 

Swamped in guilt.

Did I hurt him?
Should I have been someone else?
Was I lying to myself?

Rain is here,
an autumn rain,
fingers of ice stretching through waterfalls.
puddles on damp concrete,
trees slack with weariness.
I had to defrost my car windows.

To cry and not understand why
is the most pointless,
infuriating,
irrational behavior I know of.

And yet here,
in my lukewarm car flanking the gas pumps,
I have no meaning.
 

VII.
 

Maybe I hate him.

I sip my bitter coffee,
mouth a spoonful of stale cereal,
and think a new thought.

Maybe I hate his smile
and the easy way he walks
and the deep smell of his skin.

Perhaps I loathe his arms,
the way his jaw curves like cursive writing
and the awkwardness of his voice.

I must hate him.
My chest bleeds beneath my unwashed t-shirt.
There is no way around it.
So I rinse the words over my teeth
and test them.

"I hate him."

There.
It's out.

But if I detest him,
why are there teardrops in my cereal?
 

VIII.

It is time to stop thinking of him.

I take down the picture on my wall,
and, because I can't bear to throw it away,
I accidentally drop it behind my dresser.

I sleep with both pillows behind my head,
not with one beneath and the other cradled in my arms.
I don't need to fill the space where he should be.

I play music that only I like,
not the kind we both sang to.

Waking up stings,
but I am getting better.
I am still empty,
but I am no longer numb.

I might be able to make this work.
 

IX.

I am different.

Before him,
I desired unfailing emotion.
If I love you now,
I'll love you always and forever.

How sickening.

We were not forever,
but we weren't meant to be.
Some things aren't.

Like piano music played by wandering fingers,
or guitar chords strummed in random sequence,
one moment, they are miraculous,
but playing them back is an impossibility.
You can't remember how to remember them.

But it's fine to think of the way the notes sounded,
played without reason,
blending with the your heartbeat.