Author: Sunny

✨️ happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. ❤️‍🔥

Flutter.

Letter from 2014.

Grandma,

I get it now. A crush. Butterflies. Real feelings. I’ve always thought that the feelings I had for boys in the past were real. But that’s it – they were feelings for a boy. Feelings for a man are different. It’s a different ball game. A ball game that I don’t know any of the rules too. Nor have I practiced.

I can’t tell you what is going to happen with us in the future because I don’t know. However, I can tell you that what I feel now, in this moment – and all of the moments that have come before it with this man.

It’s like life is all that it ever was – but everything is heightened. I feel everything deeper. I smile wider. My laugh is louder. The curve of my spine straightens as I stand higher. It’s like I’m in on this secret that only I really know – and it’s the juiciest secret anyone has ever kept.

I get it now. The butterflies. It’s like when he is not around – they flutter softly in remembrance of the times that we have had. When he is near – they flutter wildly. Almost as if they want to burst out because they are excited to see him too. They want to embrace him with me.

When I haven’t heard from him or we have introduced tension into our relationship – it’s as if they are dead. Their wings fall to their sides. Colors fading.

We are not together,

but it feels like I am his.

I am humbled by this experience.

Thankful.

Sometimes I wonder if he is my one.

If this is my forever.

Regardless – I have made a promise to myself that if I have to encounter pain in the future because of our divide then I will greet it with a gratefulness for all of the things he has taught me.

I love you.

I feel like I cry easily now. Not necessarily from sadness. Just life. A good emotional mess. And I imagine that you are living in my tear ducts. Then you make your way onto my eye lashes and slide down my face. This is how you are watching the world now.

Thank you for this treasure.

–S.

You.

There’s only one you. I could never find you anywhere else in anyone else – because there is only one you.


————————-

That’s the magic. That’s the light.

————————-

They might laugh at my jokes like you do and like a lot of the songs you do and enjoy a tall, dark, and handsome man like you do, but they could NEVER do it like you.

Any of it.

Simply because there will never be another you.

That’s all there is to it and all there will ever be.

You.

You.

You.

–S.

Wet Eyelashes.

Rain always reminds me of a moment from five or so years ago.

I’m in my second or third year of college. It’s raining really hard. I’m wearing flip-flops, as per usual, and I don’t have an umbrella. I’m also parked in visitor parking because I’m a commuter and can’t always afford the luxuries in life – like a parking pass. So, I’m in visitor parking, down an incline, the furthest spot on the campus from any classroom.

I step out into the rain from the cover of the parking garage and immediately get splashed by a car that is passing by – probably by someone who can afford life luxuries like parking passes. I think to myself – this moment is a metaphor for something I can’t quite connect yet – it will come to me later. This moment also sets the tone for the rest of my day.

But it doesn’t – because there he is, like a night in shining armor.

He’s actually not much older than me,  a student, in a beat up old truck – asking a rain soaked girl if she wants a ride to class. Before I can answer, he assures me that he’s not a psycho or a total weirdo. At this point, I don’t care what he is, I’m getting in the car.

I’m in the car and I’m wet, but I’m warm.

I’m warm and making small talk with a stranger.

I’m going to be on time to class.

Wet, but on time.

I  can’t remember details about his truck, just that it was beat up, noisy, and old.

I can’t remember his face or his voice or what we even said in the short distance between us in the front of his truck.

But I can remember feeling warm, inside and out, due to this act of kindness by a stranger whose name I never found out.

This is the moment I always think of when it’s raining.

I imagine him somewhere as some girl’s prince charming. Rescuing a cat from a tree, tending to a baby bird with an injured wing, helping a blind man cross the street, giving a stranger a ride in the rain, feeding the homeless, kissing a paper-cut before placing a band-aid over it, changing someone’s tire on the side of the highway, waiting up for you to get home – making people feel warm.

Today – I am standing under an awning in front of a department store watching a downpour. The entire sidewalk is wet except for a few millimeters in front of my black flats.

I guess I’ll wait for it to turn to a sprinkle or a drizzle before I make a break for my car.

But then I’m stepping into the rain and I’m soaked in seconds. I think to myself – this moment is a metaphor for something I can’t quite connect yet – it will come to me later. My flats are soaked through, so I stop to take them off, but I don’t run.

So, I’m just a rain soaked girl walking barefoot across a parking lot to my car.

I get into the car and I look into the rear-view mirror.

I am

gasping

smiling

laughing.

Rain is rolling down my eyelashes.

I am

living.

Rain reminds me of being alive.

–S.

You’re Poetry.

You’ve never really seen yourself.

You’ve seen yourself in the mirror, yes.

But you haven’t REALLY seen yourself.

You haven’t seen how your face lights up when you laugh. You haven’t seen yourself smile when you hear a nasty song for the first time. You haven’t seen how peaceful you look when you sing. You haven’t seen yourself dreaming. Or sleeping. Or how you look when you orgasm. You haven’t seen how you look at someone you love. You haven’t seen how you look when you eat your favorite things. You haven’t seen how euphoric you are at a concert for one of your favorite artists when you’re singing along with the rest of the crowd.

You haven’t seen yourself writing your poetry. You haven’t seen the sense of peace that falls over you when you’re paining. You haven’t seen yourself reading a really good book. You haven’t seen yourself completely free while crying and laughing. You haven’t seen yourself watching your favorite scene in your favorite movie. You haven’t seen yourself holding someone you love.

So, how can you really tell me that you’re not beautiful?

You’re poetry.

You are breathtaking.

You are nothing less than breathless.

–S.

Fading into the Background.

I think of myself as a side table that holds a lamp.

Or maybe I am the lamp.

Or a dining room chair.

Or a piece of art hung unbalanced on the wall.

Or a dusty picture frame.

Or an ottoman nobody sits on.

Or maybe I’m a spatula sitting in a drawer that’s barely opened.

Or a battery in a remote control.

That’s how working customer service makes me feel.

Like a piece of furniture, a piece of decor, or a kitchen appliance.

Something devoid of humanity.

I think I had two meaningful conversations today and they were both with co-workers.

Somedays, I don’t even know that there are two.

And I wonder – how much longer do I have it in me to be a ziploc bag or a plastic orchid or a garden gnome?

I wonder.

–S.

Missing the husband I’ve yet to meet.

Though you are not here – I must confess,

that I can feel you holding me in the moments between being awake and being asleep.

That’s where I am loving you.

That’s where I still believe that you exist.

That’s where I still believe you might be on your way.

Holding me.

Kissing me.

Touching me.

Loving me.

–S.

This is how it happens.

It happens whether you want it to or not. Somehow without actively noticing it, you pick up bits and pieces of your parents. You hope for the best parts. Mom’s ability to be a better person and be nice to everyone. To see the best in others. Dad’s ability to make everyone around him laugh. The walking party.

And then there are those things that you can’t change, but maybe you could live without. Mom’s shyness. Dads temper. And then you wake up one day and you’re all of these things mixed together in a blender. And your mom tells you, you’re just like your dad. And your dad tells you, you’re just like your mom.

But they are things you can’t live without. Living and breathing examples of the people you love most. You’re a paper mache art project made by people who didn’t always know what they were doing, but did the best they could.

–S.

Drowning.

When love arrived:

Flowers grew in my heart.

Butterflies grew between my hips.

Diamonds floated in the ocean in my stomach.

A tree grew from my spine.

I never knew what it was like to feel a love, all mine.

Birds sang in my ears.

The aroma of roses permeated through my nostrils.

Bees left honey on my lips.

Sugar, sweet like your kiss.

When love left:

I slept with vultures in my bed,

I was the animal they circled thinking it was dead.

Butterflies turned into moths at my feet.

Bitter tastes replaced all of the sweet.

The flowers in my heart shriveled up and died.

The bees flew away.

The tree from my spine uprooted itself and fell.

I felt the pain mark its way down to every vertebrae.

The birds singing into my ears drowned with me in the ocean of emotions residing in my stomach.

They buried me six feet under,

Using my screams to replace the sounds of the thunder.

–S.