The first time I fell a little deeper we were sitting on wooden stools. Sipping identical beers. You told me stories of your transformation. These actions which I believed led to our collision.The first time my black heart almost spilled out over you. We were tucked under a bridge and looking out towards the ocean. I looked at that glint in your eyes and my black heart tried to push the words from my lips. Instead I closed my eyes touching my lips to your lips trapping my words behind kisses. I knew it for sure when our words and miscommunications bruised each other. I hurt because you hurt. Yet I wait until I can infuse enough courage into those words I long to tell you so bad.
What makes me different is the sadness that lives in my black heart. What makes me different is the feelings that rush my brain and my body. It is how I am having to constantly be conscious so that I don’t drift away in a flash flood of my own tears. I don’t like talking about it. Because sometimes it becomes a competition of who has been sadder. Just because I did not take any uppers or downers doesn’t mean I don’t know of hard it is to peal yourself from your bed. How heavy your heart feels and how it tugs you away from yourself. How two versions of myself live together the darkness versus the light. The light versus the darkness. How sometimes I can’t even find the words to articulate that experience because I am to consumed by feeling yours.
I was so fast to rush into it. Racing, grasping, pushing because I thought it would only be for a second. As if an hour glass had been flipped over. Each grain of sand slipping rapidly from the moment I met you. You approached it differently methodically and leisurely. You have taught me how to dial it down. You are a piece of chocolate that rest’s on my tongue. Instead of chewing it back hard. It sits and melts slowly. Rich and satisfying I can feel it as it trickles down. Complete pleasure and enjoyment. Similar to the warmth that has spread from the tip of my black heart all the way down. I embrace the warmth of constancy as it cozies up to all the icy bruises that fleeting moments had forged.
What is the best moment. Can it be just one? Or is it several that come together to form a collective. Upon reflection it seems almost circumstantial. It was the best thing at the time. It was everything you ever hoped for that second. Was it the first time you sat in the sunshine eating papaya and ice cream with him. Or is it that moment you sat with her on the rafters above the stage feeling each and every vibration as rock gods played below you. Is it the first time you legally gripped the steering wheel of the family van. Is it the moment when he signed your book with his name. Or when the email said that you where finally admitted. Or when the call came through with the offer you were dying for. Or is it yet to come?
I haven’t been able to sleep. Restless even amongst my tender white sheets. I try to calm myself. Focus on the hum of the fan. The way it creates a wind that races up the back of my leg— Creating a cacophony of goosebumps. My tired black heart is distracted with my work and other peoples problems. I trip down a selfish hallway. Wanting things. More things that give little definition to a complete life. I feel trapped by my own self entitlement. I finally slip away. Only to be startled awake by the beeping of my alarm.
I was craving an adventure today. Somewhere new and untouched by my hands. A shared experience of wonder with you by my side. Yet It is difficult for you to be able to meet me even half way. If it is you I want I must concede. My face feels flushed with defeat over something that appears to be so small. Something has shifted and this is where you begin to feel like all the rest.
It’s feels like a sunrise the way the light slips slowly up. The way it dances over the ripples as it leisurely turns from dark to light. A slow burn. The warmth spreads luxuriously over my black heart. It feels so good that it almost hurts. You hold your cards so close to your chest. Which make the little things weigh heavy when you choose to share them. The light is seeping into the dark — Putting it back together.
An old foe has slipped back in. It’s always there but mostly it’s muffled and muted. However sometimes it screams back in much to my own consternation. Flushing my cheeks a deep crimson. Sinking into my brain thick and deep. My poor black heart is heavy. Just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean it will happen again. Just because we are dancing on the cusp of 3 months doesn’t mean the worst is about to happen. The morning’s are the struggle. Simple things are not usually this hard when it is muffled and muted.
Wanting, craving and dreaming. There is comfort in knowing that you will get it. Yet when you don’t you get used to that to. It’s there just a little bit numbed. Just a little duller. Buzzing at a low frequency just below surface. I wonder if this is worth the sacrifice. Should it even be sacrificed at all. As time ticks on will I barley feel it? Or will I want it more then ever…
Sometimes I just want to be old. Sitting out on my porch watching the waves crash in. Sipping on sweet tea. My hair sparkling with silver. With you sitting by my side. Filled with stories and sentimentality. For now I keep trying to make the best moments to look back on.