Tag: sunnysideupish

Nothing Mattered.

I want you to know that the nights we spent with outfits too short for our own good, dried up alcohol on our bodies from random strangers stumbling around the bar, sweaty hair, and cigarette smelling clothes are nights that I will never forget.

On those nights – we owned the town.

Two girls holding hands walking barefoot with their heels in their hands starting up at the skyscrapers of the city.

The whole city was lit up with neon signs, the moon, and the stars.

Nothing mattered on those nights.

Not whose heart was broken.

Not what college paper was waiting to be written.

Not what family or friend drama was developing.

Not that there was a work shift coming in the morning.

–S.

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.