Philtronsies

Do you have a crush on him, he asks me. Though my response is reactively dismissive, this seems to validate what was swelling inside me. He continues, it’s in the way you look at him. It’s like the way you used to look at me.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s leaving for France soon, that causes this sort of clinging to surface. I am surprised of the pressure of tears welting up in me at the mere mention of his departure. It will never be like this again, to my awareness. The beauty will fade and transform. Just as it has never felt this way before, feelings are never stagnant and inevitably I will not feel this for long. People take photographs to capture a fleeting moment, and I am compelled to capture this— whatever this is, with words. I must.

He asked to use my shampoo, to which I reply yes, but I make it clear it’s a one-time deal. After opening the bathroom door, I find him rubbing his slender fingers through his hair, commenting on how soft and supple it feels. What is this, he asks. What is this Argan oil? I feel so pampered! I mumble something in acknowledgement but am so transfixed on this feeling of pampering that I indirectly played a part in.

I lay at night awake in my bed, listening to him drawing himself a bath. I imagining in all the ways I’d like to replicate and expand that feeling, though more directly. I see myself slipping into that tub with him, lying in comforting, undisturbed silence. Falling into one another, falling into ourselves, falling out of this world into nothingness.

To come back, I bring myself to wash his dark hair, combing it between my pale skinned fingers, admiring the contrast. I slowly massage his scalp, his eyes close and peacefulness upturns his lips. I find pleasure in melting him with my touch. His head is between my legs, nestled between my thighs but still resting on my lap. I carefully rinse his hair with warm water, the soap gliding down my legs.

Next, I move to his face and exfoliate with the scrub on the pads of my fingertips. Circular motions, I concentrate on his temples and strong, exquisite nose. He tells me how he never realized how itchy his face was as the gentle abrasion is scratching it with unexpected relief. Thank you, he whispers with ecstasy.

I wipe his face with a wet, steaming towel and wrap it around his face in such a way where his nose is exposed. I think about one of my favorite bathing positions, the fish posein yoga, laying in the bath and dipping my head back, leaving only my nose above water. I leave the towel on for a minute. I pat it dry and proceed with a nose-strip. As it is curing, I close his eyes with my gentle touch and lightly drag my lips across his forehead, trace the high point of his cheekbones and then down, across his upper lips, settling into the philtron. I embody the definition of this term with fullness, the name of this area stemming from Greek meaning to love, to kiss. My bottom lip catches on his lower lip as I make my way to his chin. My chin grazes his nose strip, hard as what I envision to be beneath the sudsy water, and I know it’s time.

I remove the strip and hand it to him. He revels in all the spines created from the extraction of his pores. He caresses his nose and observes how soft it is. I kiss it and move on. I reach for his hand, and begin massaging it. I loosen the tissue and muscle, bringing an enhanced bodily awareness to his hands. The tenseness of years of masturbating fall out of his fingertips. Loneliness dissipates in this moment. There is only love, shown through touch and intention.

The times I have contemplated breaking up with my partner, I was prepared to walk away from this relationship as well due to their friendship. But not without parting words!

You have a brilliant mind, I am prepared to tell him. You will become a very fine-young man, a respectable man. A man whom I will continue to admire. You are beautiful, in the way you sit almost nude in the patio doorway, your perfectly bronzed skin absorbing the morning’s sun rays, gazing into the distance, into the thick of greenery ahead. Greeting the day with this sort of processing and slow acceptance of your awake-ness. The gold in your green eyes sparkle. I have to intentionally fix my eyes in another part of the room as I want to look on and adore every square inch of your are skin, noting where your bones protrude and muscle is evident. Wait, is this too much?

But you are beautiful in the way you soak in your ritualistic baths, downing a full cup of milk beforehand, and keep a whole gallon of full flavor milk in the fridge at all times. The way you whistle in the bathroom and the kitchen, finding joy in feeding your body and soul. The way you thoughtfully consider every piece of art, no matter the form, and articulate ideas and relationships only a philosopher could produce. You are beautiful.

Your name alone sets you apart from many, a name I never knew before. You have an energy I am blessed to have encountered. I watch you go about your day, spending a notable amount by yourself, and mourn for all those who do not know you. They don’t know your depth, your insights, your passion. They do not know. But I know. And I know that you are beautiful.

I hope your life unravels in such a way that supports your intelligence, humor, dignity and passion. I hope you are always surrounded by love and understanding, acceptance, encouragement. That you are challenged by people, ideas, experiences and love.

I feel paralyzed by this emotion. It consumes me. If not my thoughts, my bodily sensations. I’ve lost my appetite as I am transcended above food and physical needs. There’s a warm weight in my chest. A pain, a tender string that pulls, aching, desiring closeness that may never be. Emotional, spiritual, bodily. This is an expression of love. A total exploration in what will ever be between us, and was born and will die in my imagination alone. It means nothing but is also everything, the reason we are here. To love freely, without consequences. Without definitions, categories. Just to notice and express the love that flows in all of us. I know this means nothing as far as the outward trajectory of our lives. And I am okay with that. One of the biggest tragedies in life is to love in silence. I will cannot do that any longer.

don’t leave me.

Despite typically loving to spend alone time with myself, the emptiness was notably painful last night. My roommate wasn’t home, which normally I wouldn’t mind, but thrive on blasting embarrassing music with no shame. I missed X. Well I missed somebody. I don’t know if it was X per sé, it’s hard to tell these days or any day that ever was. More like how I relate to him, that is what I miss. The comfort, security. But typically I wouldn’t have felt so lonely but R’s absence really is what I felt the most. I know I have issues with being alone, that is why I got the little furry bugger when I divorced Henry… and now….what am I going to do? I feel like I have nothing. But is that so bad? I wish I could ask a valid source about if I am doing myself a disservice by being with X. But like M said, no one can make that decision for me….not even my therapist, a humorous thought; I SUPPOSE I still need to work on my self trust. I feel like I know the answers, I am just scared of them. And I fear I am going to make decisions that would put me in a dark place of seemingly no return. There is so much accountability being in a relationship. I fear if I was alone I would just slip off this earth. Just slither away and end my life, whether literal or just drown my mind and heart somehow. I don’t trust myself with myself. Being left completely alone, I feel compelled to scream, please don’t leave me alone with her, she’s going to hurt me. And I see the devil inside me smirking, salvaging over the feast of the life inside me.

Have a Good Day

Sitting in the sandwich shop, reading an e-mail from a friend. She spoke to vividly of a girl she came in contact with. She has a way of describing people and plucking the very core of their character…an undeniable gift of a writer. Hopping from word to word, I became humored. When I made an audible chuckle, I almost didn’t recognize it. It was like hearing a stranger laugh and falling in love with it. I miss her. 
 
The old man sitting behind me approached the cashier’s counter, had a brief exchange but while reading this e-mail from my friend—I heard the cashier say, Have a good day, now. He responded in a way that snagged my interest—pulling me away from the world I was submerged in via text. I think I just might, he responded. He carefully considered her suggestion, revealed the peak of the “j” and the “m” in just might
 
He treated it as a choice. A choice to have a good day. We all hear that happiness is a choice, but in that moment, I had a better understanding of that seemingly distant concept. He was going to have a good day—not because at the mercy of the day but his ownership of it. 
 
I respect that.

Taciturn Meeting

after futile anticipation,
we stand before each other,
looking away,
avoiding.

infested skin,
infested clothes,
keeping us at bay,
tangible barriers,
only excuses.

an undeniable emptiness,
the sun has set,
the frogs croaking
and we sit in silence.

when all we have left are words,
there is nothing to say.

What is a terrible girlfriend.

What is a terrible girlfriend.

A terrible girlfriend is someone who says things
because they are the right thing to say
but doesn’t mean them.
Someone who feels intense jealousy when her boyfriend
tells her he went skinny dipping in the ocean with a bunch of people,
feels abandoned when he makes new friends,
and cannot completely celebrate his happiness
and personal progress.
A terrible girlfriend is someone
who writes extensive e-mails to her partner
who after waiting several days,
he replies, and she aches with
disappointment.
He never says enough, rarely says the right things,
and when he complains of itching,
and finds out some bug was contracted on a trip,
she questions how intimate he was with others
behind her back.
Late nights. Parties. Midnight adventures far away
as she silently cries in self-appointed agony.
A terrible girlfriend spends much of the day of missing him,
but when it is actually time to reunite,
she dreads and anticipates it with acute
disappointment.
She fantasizes about him lying about having a bug,
having to wait even longer after a major separation,
just so he could set something up and do something
thoughtful for her.
But she knows this isn’t it.
He has a bug.
And so does she.

monday rap night

More hours ago than I care to specify, my dear friend sent me an e-mail asking me about a new job. She wasn’t asking what I did and what the compensation was, oh no. She sucked through her straw with her characteristic vigor and it propelled me in a frantic Google search to find her the voyeuristic juice she yearned for. I looked up my boss’s name, and served her with several links displaying photos, a video, links explaining what she did with her 70+ years with her original heart, lungs and brain. She is an artist and poet.

This waterslide enabled me to explain to my dear friend that someone I knew is in the class she teaches, and after a minute of a magnifying glass and the rays of rare concentration, I remembered his last name without realizing I even knew it—let alone spell it. I felt like I was making a time-sensitive decision in some sort of stalking battle, my reflexes kicking in to seal my survival. And it kind of has, in retrospect after a handful of hours. I found poetry he had written. I skimmed it with quarter-hearted interest, and somehow got the bright idea of Googling a good friend of his.

This friend is also a writer, albeit retiring at the swollen age of 24, and I had read some work of his in the past. I skid into his Tumblr and unwrapped years of writing. I will divulge that I am dating this individual. He had loaned me a compilation of all his work, though reading some of it had the effect of clothes on feverish skin. Though subtle, I was sensitive and felt too involved since much of his writing involved romantic feelings for others. This is all I will say about that right now. Plenty of jealousy will ensue in subsequent entries.

After slurping away with minimal blinking, being two years older than him, it left me feeling undeveloped in my own writing—or at least the sharing aspect. Currently, I write more than him but it is all secured and isolated in the documents on my computer. I do not publish. But it has been on my mind for years, and a few dusty blogs are scattered about. In the past couple months, I settled on a theme. I am not sure if this is an appropriate capsule to incorporate it into, but a site solely throwing a pity party wouldn’t sustain me long term. Rest assured, it will have many acts, and become a regular here. Though I want to focus on the macro, and I think it is agreeable that victims feel fear. That is what brings them/us comfort, fastened in their existence.

As rap bounces around my ear canals, I sit here on my plaid sheets on this Monday night, begin coordinating my party. It is time.