A boy and I. A boy I fancied. Sitting on a train across from one another. Travelling towards London. New trainers. My legs gently moving within his peripheral. My feet clawing for attention. Shy. Anxious. A boy I fancied. New trainers I just thought were so cool. I wanted him to think I was cool. If I was cool, I might have a chance. He may fancy me back. Too anxious to realise it was mutual as it had started with my throwing myself at his feet. How mutual, though. I’m weird. I’m awkward. The opposite of cool.

How can I make him pay attention? How can I make him pay attention without asking him to pay attention.

Some coy, passive babble. Overt hints. “Are these new?” …Well, now I feel stupid… “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Why didn’t I just say that?

Now I take up just a little more space each time. Still weird. Still awkward.

Small moments. Supernova.

Death is strange and uncomfortable. An intangible force that can snuff one from existence in an instant. It’s hard to grasp the fragility of life as the end is just a mere moment. So much so that it appears invisible. Everyone seems invincible and impermanence is ignored to the point that we take it for granted.

And then you realised they didn’t chat to you about science for 8 hours because they think you’re cool or interesting, they just wanted to fuck you.
And that is just pretty deflating.

I’m hiding behind words
Silence is failing me tonight
Enigmatic phrases slip past my lips
Echoing in my half empty glass

The subtle subluxation of your thoughts
During these wasted nights
Tailing them relentlessly
Through the dark alleys of your mind

This awkward stasis
Where no one wants to be
First to bare it all
Loser takes the fall

This awkward placement
So close and so far part
So far from the finish
Yet nowhere near the start

I thought about you often and it annoyed me. It annoyed me because you’d done nothing to earn such a prevalent place in my consciousness. Not the brief time we spent together, however enjoyable it was (that I would in the coming months learn was nothing but a rouse), not the lengthy conversations or how well we connected over the months leading up to “those nights”. You had done nothing at all to deserve a second thought the moment I stepped away from your body on the train headed towards the tube station. But there you were, in all your elusive glory, gaining purchase on my drifting thoughts and easily-bruised identity of self worth. Countless nights ambling through my thoughts wondering if I was to blame, how I could have saved the situation from becoming what it was, and a myriad of other unanswered questions. I am even annoyed that, right now, I am giving you space in my head as I write this.

However, given the events that transpired last week I can safely say that the only remaining emotion I have towards you is relief. I’d wish you well, but that’d be a lie, and a petty one at that. I don’t wish you anything. I got the answers to my questions in a rather unexpected form. They confirmed what I suspected, but was too busy riddling myself with blame and guilt, to accept it as fact. They weren’t my tears falling that night. They weren’t my venomous words being flung across the table inside blind accusations. But they could have been. I am relieved. And you, are clearly no better now than when we collided. I excel at the art of dodging bullets and you might have been the biggest one yet.

They were sat back in the devil’s strip club on the 3rd night after the new year, the 3rd night within the depths of alcohol-soaked trenches wrought with desperation and vacant stares. The bitter winter’s cold was countered by the heat emanating from the lights above and the bodies milling around adjacent to the low lit stages as if searching for something they knew they’d never find in this underbelly of scorned lovers & desolate thoughts.

Their drink of choice was one of many throughout the evening. His body and his words kept moving closer and closer behind the table until he put his arm around her shoulders, gently hugging her into him. An endless game of cat and mouse where the roles are reversed, but no one is willing to admit the mistake. He fawned over her, while in juxtapose, music with the distinct undertone of “daddy issues” pounded from the speakers as another naked body made it’s way up the pole. Liquor slowly prying open the doors of what he tried to keep locked up tight while the sun is up.

Another round of mezcal and the empty words, “you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met” escaped his lips. She countered by bringing her glass to her lips, sipping slowly and thoughtfully and averting a gaze by watching another scantily clad figure pulse rhythmically in front of her. Seedy places like these always seem to bring out the honesty in people. There is something so romantic about fervently opposing your surroundings. Darkness sucks the light right out of a good few, but at least we get to watch it go.

While in their youth, swapping escapades to impress lovers he would compare her to his ever-growing list of failed advances, “I wish a girl would fly halfway across the world for me.” An impulsive gesture of her yesteryears that has since been abandoned. He always carried on like this, over the years, between the drinks and alongside the empty bottles that he stacked neatly above the door. She meant everything and nothing to him. Valiantly pursued until a less vulnerable distraction crossed his path when she would be, yet again, discarded.

When things fell apart for him, and they always did, she was quickly plucked from the shelf upon which she’d been stowed. Once complacent and lackadaisical, now she stiffened in his presence. Scar tissue building up, covering her once soft and warm exterior. He’d attempt to sooth her with wine, and massage her back into his palm with words, “…but I feel like you have the potential to be the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. And you are just keeping yourself from that because you are scared of something…You are right on the cusp of this other kind of woman that I’ve never known.”

Tolerance eventually gave way to animosity and grasping at the delicate straws of her waning sanity. Patience turned to resentment that built up into a vodka infused blowout that left him crying in his kitchen as she forced herself past his tears and arms and saw herself out into the poorly light, vacant streets. The concrete sidewalks were gently kissed by the fog that hovered so close to the ground, as if seeking refuge from the moon above. She clung to the shadows between the streetlights hoping to avoid being found by him ever again.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions; the express lane is littered with the rest.

Of all the things to risk, of life and limb, the heart is always the most dangerous. For if it all falls apart, it will not kill you. It will merely bring you to the brink of death from the inside out, but it will not kill you. It will debilitate you beyond the disfunction that any loss of extremity could, but it will not kill you.

No. It lets you live. An organ on death row. Shrinking away until there is nothing but a chest cavity filled with failed attempts, songs and letters for no one, and the occasional regret.

Anxiously she awaited his arrival at the pub. Make up and hair impeccably done in the hours before. A drink to calm the nerves. Distracting herself by conversing with the joining couple she’d arrived with. He was late. “He missed the train earlier.” she was informed. Shortly after, he arrived. Greeting her with a captivating gaze, a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek.

They made their way to the restaurant down the street.”You wore heels like you said you would,” he smiled at her.

Appetites satiated they relocated to another pub for a few more rounds. The other couple departed after it was assessed she’d be alright left in his ‘capable hands.’ She sipped her double rum & coke at the pub table, drinking him in all the while. A conversation without words. Her leg pressed into his beneath the table as the clatter of drunk conversation and spilt ale permeated the air. They’d lock eyes, he’d smile at her. The corners of her lips turned upwards and she pursed them together as she bashfully diverted her gaze to her drink, spinning the ice cubes around in circles.

Again they took to the cold evening streets. He took big steps as his tall frame allowed, while she quickened her strides to keep pace. A Blues bar. Cover was £5 each. She hesitated and turned to him as he handed the door man a tenner. Inside was alive with warm bodies and lively music from the far end of the bar. Predictably they cozied up to a wall with more rum. There was only one seat which he chivalrously offered, but she insisted on standing between his legs while he sat instead. They talked, compared stories, he made her laugh and she put her hand on his leg as if to steady herself without ever being off balance in the first place; he smiled.

The time was fast approaching where the trains stop until the early morning. Not ready to say goodnight they headed South. Rum blurred out the background of people and sounds in the brightly lit tunnels as they amorously made their way through the underground.

Whiskey upon arrival followed by the obligatory grand tour which eventually terminated between sheets. Morning came and went. He had mountains of work to do; tight deadlines & pressing phone calls that he seemed to be completely ignoring. She wasn’t going to remind him, but instead searched for the subtle cue from him that it was time to go that never came. Instead, he trailed his hands through her hair while the window shades eliminated the world around them for another day.

As it’s always best to depart before you’ve had the opportunity to outstay a welcome, he accompanied her to the bus stop the next evening. “Do you want me to come to the station with you?” He asked. “You’ve got work to do I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll probably see you later?” He nodded and held on to her while she rested her head into the crook of his arm. The double decker that signaled their parting arrived. He kissed her again. Then she stepped on to the bus and hasn’t seen him since.

When words fail and silence fills the spaces in between I hold my breath and count the seconds that I feel less and less. Tender memories claw their way into my consciousness and I remember how far we came to get nowhere at all.

I’d like to get away to a place where no one knows my name and I can pretend I’m not as broken as I sometimes feel while I dip my toes into the ocean on a beach I’ve never been before.

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I am far more romanticised with the
words that knock about your head, than
the ones that roll off your tongue
The value lies in
the unspoken stories you’ve told me with your eyes
The novellas you’ve recited with your hands
as you ran them along my body

I was far more in love with the image of you
that I created in my head
The words I cleverly plucked from between the lines
and ran together
to create a reality all my own
A paper house on the highest peak
The view was lovely from up there before the storm

It’s a damned shame
watching you fade to grey
I replay the day of your departure
from this burning flame
over and over again

Smoldering ashes of
lovers and silk
Left in this hotel room
to be cleaned up by the help

Where are you going, love
With your face twisted like that
What are you leaving behind
That you don’t care to get back

I changed the locks to keep you out
Now I struggle to find my way in
This type of loss would have swallowed someone whole
So the doors stay barricaded and guarded at night
You become a faded photograph
An unfamiliar face
Something I can’t quite remember
A candle extinguished as the door shuts

All the letters I write to you I end up sending to myself, because out of the two of us I’m the only one who cares enough to care.

The bar maid says, “I hope you’re going out and having fun.”
To which I replied, “what?”
“I hope no one stood you up. You’re far too pretty for that.”
To which I lied, “oh, don’t worry. No one did. I’m going out after this.”

So now I’m at a bar. And being hit on by a stranger. Thinking about all the times you said you’d be there and weren’t. You’re a fucking asshole. And all the cracks at my surface are because of you. The wine blurs the edges of those memories, thankfully.

Sunday is the last game of the season, he told me.

“I never ask this question to myself, because it’s not possible to go back. I always think everything has sense. What’s happening now is the best it can happen, because it’s what’s happening.”

Regret is that taste when you buy a pasta salad at the supermarket only to remember that you forgot you hated mayonnaise. Regret is that shock to your body after you look down at your phone while you’re driving and don’t realise the car in front of you is stopping until it’s too late. Regret is the pounding in your head after a night of heavy drinking to lessen the regret from the night before. Regret is that weight in your chest when things are left unsaid. Regret is that kick to your gut as someone you care about slams the proverbial door in your face.

What regret isn’t, is knowing I did everything I could and it just wasn’t good enough; that’s just a key left under the mat.

The smell of vinegar has been permeating my nostrils for hours now.

Strong and vulgar, it offends the rest of my senses. Sending me into periodic grinding halts in the midst of whatever I am doing. It started when I went to take photographs of the laid up freights down the road.

How ironic.

It has since followed me up the street, back to my apartment building, from there onto the bus to the restaurant where I picked up some mediocre thai food to hold me over until tomorrow, and back again to my apartment. Fending off all other smells; They stray cat weaving figure eights between my legs while I waited for the bus, the drunk man sitting next to me, the dirt and exhausted kicked up as cars flew by up the road.

Now the odor hovers, pulses around my head and you’re the only thing I can think of.

in progress

It’s been a strange 3 years
It’s been a longer 6 months
And we’re back at the beginning like we // never left that spot

You’re silence is heavy
This distance, farther than it’s ever been
And I can’t keep telling myself that we’ll meet again

The harder you’ve pushed
The more I’ve stood my ground
Up against a hurricane that spits venom and flame

But I’m growing weary
I won’t break, I’ll just bend
So we keep going in circles as if this never will end

(c)
You’ve made me / try harder than I’ve ever tried
You’ve taught me patience that only a saint could apply
Now here I am walking down this road alone again
And I can’t keep telling myself that I’ll see you again

I never asked you to stick around
It was only a suggestion
If the 3rd times not a charm you’d think that I’d learn my lesson

I never tried to clip your wings
you only pinned them yourself
Convincing (that man in the mirror/all your grey matter) that I was somebody else

I’ve counted the sleepless nights
Listening to the clock ticking away
Trying to make sense of why you thought it dangerous to stay

Push came to shove
Doors slammed and the locks changed
So we sit here in the quiet while you finish out your games

(c)
You’ve made me / try harder than I’ve ever tried
You’ve taught me patience that only a saint could apply
Now here I am walking down this road alone again
And I can’t keep telling myself that I’ll see you again

(b)
I’m still here counting stars
Down by the train tracks
Watching all these lives & steel pass by
Should you ever come back

I’m sitting under the power lines
Hoping this message finds it’s way
Passing time under these power lines
Watching the neon fade to gray

(c)
You’ve made me / try harder than I’ve ever tried
You’ve taught me patience that only a saint could apply
Now here I am walking down this road alone
And this time, it’s fine

I’ve never been good at breakups. I’m better now than I used to be, but it’s not easier. Maybe I’m just quieter about them now. No point in whinging about the hurt knowing full well the risks you’ve willingly assumed, right?

I’m emotive in a way, but I hate for people to know about it. It’s a pride thing. So I usually just bludgeon paper with my favourite pen for ages or smash at these keys until little by little I bury my feelings down far enough where I can’t feel them all the time. That, or keep myself insanely busy so that I barely have time to breathe, let alone think about my life and the important pieces missing from it. The latter is far less sustainable.

My stuffed panda who spends each night with me has caught more tears than I’d like to admit. He’s also been flung across the room into a wall more times than I’m proud of.

I’d like to think I’m decently pragmatic about these types of things. On the outside at least. Usually on the inside I’m walking a very thin line between a full blown panic attack and going on a homicidal rampage and wanting to punch life in it’s provebrial face. I’ve met this situation with far more apathy and grace than previously. However, it still keeps me up into the late hours of the night/morning, so I must not be as ambivalent about it as I like to tell myself I am.

“Everybody owns a thing a person leaves behind when they leave us, and we’re all familiar with the way that thing morphs into something sacred and symbolic.” – Jozen

There are pieces of you everywhere now. Some of them, most of them, you gave me. Some of them, one thing, I took; You might have actually given it to me but I can’t figure out if it was an accident or not.

The first thing you ever gave me was a wine bottle on which you’d taken great care in writing my name in big graffiti letters spotted with bubbles and drips. You only did one “S”, explaining to me that graffiti is stupid when you have double letters because one always ends up looking better than the other. Because you’re completely OCD like me, this made sense. And I was happy to have my own little nickname from you, one that I wouldn’t come to share with your dog later on. We weren’t dating when you made it for me, in fact, we’d never met each other in person at that point in time.

We’d skype for hours upon hours and you’d sit there with your paint pens drawing and periodically showing me the progress when you got over having your tortured artist ‘I hate everything I create’ moments. I loved it, I still do. It may not be your best work, but it’s special to me.

Every time I move, which is more than I’d like to admit, I carefully pack it and make sure no heavy boxes end up on top of it, or nothing gets close enough to scratch any paint off, because I doubt I can make any special requests from you at this point in time. I’d then proudly display the bottle again when I unpack in my new place. It was my attempt in commissioning artwork from you for free, and, because you thought I was pretty, you obliged.

The second thing you gave me was a stuffed panda, which was actually the first thing, because it was the first tangible object that I touched aside from you that had to do with you. I have it here next to me right now like I always do. It’s been loved almost beyond recognition of being a panda. It’s white fur has yellowed and it’s no longer silky soft like it was when you surprised me with it in the front seat of your car at the DC airport. You told me once that I should wash it and I looked at you like you were crazy. So, no, I haven’t washed it. That’d be like exchanging it for a new one that wasn’t from you. So it sits here yellowed, tatty looking and loved day in and day out.

Then there was that lucky cat. We went to the mall, because that’s where you go to eat when you live in the county on the East Coast as far as I know. Ruby Tuesday’s or something fancy along those lines. There was a line so we’d put our names down to wait. You said you wanted to go look for a hat, or underwear, or a shirt. Something boring and errand-y. So I stayed put to make sure we got a table. You strolled up 15 minutes later with that look on your face; the look a 1st grader gives when he’s about to give the girl he likes a present, or punch her; half giddy and half disgusted. Begrudgingly happy with yourself. You held out your hand and mumbled “I got you this,” as you shoved the cat into mine (Just like when you practically threw my christmas present at my face that one year). It was little and yellow sitting with one paw raised and a cheeky smile on a coiled spring. A dashboard ornament.

I’ve yet to put it on a car, my thought process being that of ‘what if I get a new car and then have to rip the sticky part off and it wont stick on the new one?’, so it sits on my desk bobbing around gently when I type. Sometimes I pick it up and fawn over it for a little before putting it down just before I get too sad. It was quite possibly the nicest gift you’ve ever given me because there wasn’t any reason behind it other than you simply saw something that made you think of me.

I kept waiting for the moment for you to delete me, again. In every sense of the word. I don’t know why you didn’t sooner. You’re so good at pretending that I don’t exist and that I never have, and that in the unlikely event that I actually had, that it was of little or no concern to you. Like I’m some stranger you shrugged off on the street and kept carrying on with your day. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that.

I don’t get sad anymore. Not in the quintessential sense of the word. I just feel more dead inside. Like I can’t be bothered to feel anything because it’s all too much effort. Instead, it’s just this overwhelming heaviness that grips my chest, and forces me to fake a smile in the company of others. I resign myself to feeling like a fucking idiot and being to pack up all the pieces I had gotten out to put back together until you’d strewn them about again.

Missing someone is like being sick. It’s worse in the morning and at night.

It’s hard to figure out what to do with yourself when you’re trapped in a tiny room with someone who clearly does not want you there any longer. The silence becomes deafening and the unspoken animosity being directed from one side of the room to the mattress begins to feel heavy and suffocating, pushing on my chest more and more until I can barely breathe. No amount of sinking into the bed could help me disappear any faster as I prayed for another storm to hit and cut all the power so the darkness could consume me and we could pretend to have to go to sleep. So we could pretend that there were better and more important things to do than be in each others company, though you didn’t seem to have to pretend. So we could pretend I didn’t fly across the country to see you. And so I could pretend I wasn’t fighting back tears and rejection that cut so deep it must have been visible to anyone but you.

I don’t remember you turning out the light. I don’t remember you crawling into bed or how you got to there from the chair in the first place. I remember feeling disgusting and how I could hear loudly through your thoughts that you were angry and had no interest in wrapping me up in your arms like you had done the night before. So I curled up on my side of the bed and starred at the wall until I was too exhausted from holding my breath and staying motionless that I gave into my final disappearing act.

You woke me up in the middle of the night when you pressed the back of your body into mine. You were warm and soft and I thought things might be okay. Then you woke up and left for work and I haven’t seen you since…….

It’s not safe to stay around the one that knows you best
Even though in the darkest hour she helps get the demons off your chest

And it’s not wise to let your guard down to the gentlest of tigers
Even though she’ll use those claws for you when it gets down to the wire

The passion, the sex, the fire and the spark
using all you’ve built to find your way in the dark

but it’s better to leave the ones you love first
before they leave you in the middle of the night
better to see it coming
than to take it from the blind side

the darkness is your friend, she’ll help you mend your troubled mind
when you walk away from all the answers to your questions and that girl you left behind

So pop another pill and let it numb the noises inside your chest
stare blankly into that glowing box and just forget about all the rest

There’s noises outside the window, close the blinds and don’t let them in
There’s something floating around in your head but you don’t know where to begin

It’s easier when you don’t have to see her, pretending it’s all a game
It’s easier when she can’t bring you any closer to this flame

So keep control and only let the bell toll when you’ve had enough
Don’t let the naked skin or that girl within be the one who calls your bluff

that pretty paper doll you kept pushing too close to the matches
wondering why now all you have left is ashes

Nights like this aren’t easy. Nights like this are actually really hard…