Strange is the heart of woman
who yearns to be alone with shadows.
Flesh and blood do not interest her,
it is echoes and thoughts that she reaches toward.
But she is still flesh
she is still blood
and the essence of her heart, still beating,
is one part air, one part searching.
She is in the middle of existing and dying,
in the middle of welling up with potential
and winding down into the earth.
Strange is the heart of woman,
walking a tightrope of conviction.
The only thing she fears is the wind,
pushing her away from the shadows, pushing her into
the arms of flesh and blood.
August 15, 2015
I have wandered the earth in my dreams,
searching for the vague shadows of your existence,
searching for a momentary glimpse of your smile.
I often wander aimlessly when you are too far away to be found,
seeing and hearing people and places that mean little,
running through empty versions of my dreams.
Sometimes I do see you,
the side of your smile,
the edge of your lips,
the curve of your shoulders.
I have seen you on beaches, in rooms, in gardens.
I have seen you in lakes, in stores, on winding roads.
I chase you in these places, but you never stand still.
I push wakefulness away,
urging my body to stay asleep for just a moment longer,
just until I see you
and you see me.
No one hears me like you did.
They listen. But they don’t really hear the desperate underpinnings of my requests, or the vulnerability beneath my anger, or the despair of my boredom.
They talk at me, not to me. At least not to my heart.
And so I stopped expecting them to hear me. I speak into the air, hoping that the spoken words will drift off into some corners somewhere and create bridges of meaning, connecting my mind to my heart, my hear to my limbs, my limbs to the universe. My words are spoken just because words must be spoken. Because that is the way life must be.
But what meaning do my words hold when no one really hears me?
July 16, 2015
While I am reading, as you used to,
a sensation of your hand against mine stops me for a moment-
is it a memory of the past, or is it a silent meeting in the present?
The smell of your perfume with a slight twinge of summer perspiration
seems to live somewhere between my throat and collar bone-
The same place that knots and clots intermittently
when everything is fine, but also nothing is fine.
Sometimes I remember you as though your hand is still in mine, resting, breathing, understanding-
as though the silence of our years apart has not made it more difficult to know you.
And sometimes your memory inhabits another world entirely-
a world where the brightness of the day was a little more pronounced, where tomorrow was something to be anticipated, not tolerated.
Yesterday I said to you: don’t leave me
as I looked at your reflection in the mirror, smiling into what seemed to be eternity, looking past the unshaven bits on your cheeks.
We had each other, it didn’t matter if you were a bit disheveled.
I said don’t leave me, not yet. My heart hasn’t yet had its fill.
But you would always leave because you were needed somewhere else.
I still say to you in my heart – the heart that understands eternity – don’t leave me, not yet. Not ever.
You are in my peripheral vision, turning the corner and slipping into the grasp of some unknown place,
some unknown eternity that I am not yet a part of.
You are here, in the space between my throat and collar bone. Your shadow in my periphery,
the echoes of your existence beating through me like the blood that keeps my body working.
I told you, don’t leave me.
I tell you, don’t leave me.
I keep telling myself, our story isn’t over.
I keep saying there will be another moment between sleep and awake where something will happen, something will change what I already know but don’t want to say:
That’s what I thought as I eyed the washroom sink that day, ready to throw up just to untie the painful knot in my stomach. But I didn’t throw up. I kept it in. I kept it all in.
I kept it in because I wanted to keep you. I wanted to keep you and I couldn’t. I wanted to keep you but you can’t be kept.
You aren’t the knot in my stomach. You’re you. And you’re gone.
And I keep telling myself, our story isn’t over.
But it is.
And I wish it wasn’t.
February 8, 2015
In the moments of being adrift in the soft waves between sleep and wakefulness, you are there. On a beach with your pale blue polo shirt and bare feet, running on the sand and feeling the warm foamy water crash against your shins. You are there, I see you. But you will not come to me.
And again you are there, in a bed somewhere, sick or tired, or both. I don’t know. And a phone call to you is ended abruptly. They keep saying you can’t come see me because of one thing or another. You are there, I can hear you on the crumbly line.
And again you are there, but not really. Standing with a woman and two children – a boy and a girl. You don’t want me to leave, but you will not let them go. The woman is beautiful and I am carrying a cardboard box to put my things into. I am here, you see me. You understand me. You hold onto my arm for a moment, but say nothing.
So I collect the boxes with my things and stand still, looking at what I love and what I cannot love.
I do not want our circle to break. I do not wish for it to change or rust or slip off of thinning fingers. But you will not come.
You keep dying. I keep waking up.
October 26, 2014
I do not understand it, I do not embrace it.
I embrace the voices that seek to destroy me with their whisperings that I should be…
soft, like feathers. Hard, like nails.
Hard, like feathers. Soft, like nails.
I do not listen for silence. I do not welcome it.
In silence there is a void, an emptiness. I do not need emptiness. I need a voice to tell me to be tough like steel, but comforting like a cup of tea.
Comforting like steel. Tough, like a cup of tea.
The voices have begun to rule me. They have found an empty domain to inhabit,
but I have allowed them to sprawl and stretch within the crevices in me,
to tell me to be cold like ice, warm like a wool blanket.
Cold, like a wool blanket. Warm, like ice.
Silence cannot win, because,
silence cannot fill empty hands.
So I must speak. I must write. I must listen to the voices that my heart speaks,
the voices that my insecurities speak,
the voices that tell me to love unreservedly,
the voices that tell me to never love again.
I used to not fear silence when your voice still soothed my thoughts.
I used to not fear silence when your footsteps still echoed in the floorboards.
I used to not fear silence when silence was only a filler until I would hear your words again.
But it has been some time, and your voice hasn’t come back to me. So I have filled my body with voices that do not live well with one another. Voices that confuse me. Voices that disgust me.
When I reach out my hand in invitation to see if your voice will come to me, my heart is met with silence.
And it is the silence I fear.
The silence narrates to me a story I do not want to hear.
It tells me, you are too far away to ever hear my voice again.
When I lie very still, I can feel the earth shaking beneath me, my body bending to its will.
The peace that I find on a quiet day will not stop the earth from shaking beneath my feet – it is protesting my sins, protesting the moments of untruths, times of cowardice. It is protesting the trust it was given.
When I hold its flowers in my palms, against my slowly aging skin, I wonder that the earth and I are both aging. But it doesn’t lose its beauty as I do. It remains beautiful from one season to the next – only interrupted by bursts of winter and death.
Spring and sun and laughter do not stop the earth from quaking beneath feet. Dancing on the earth will not stop it from wanting it to swallow you into itself. Your feet are too heavy, too slow, too burdensome, and the earth is tired of you.
Perhaps death is a release from a long winter, a propelling into an eternal spring.
Everyone is one colour, and I am another.
I no longer exist on the same plane, I no longer breathe the same air or participate in the same conversations, except by the words that force themselves out of my mouth – the words that must bend to my will to stay within the acceptable lines of being.
I am alone. So deeply and profoundly alone that it is frightening. I am in a room of one thousand, but they are all green, and I am blue. I have tried to colour myself green, tried to dye the death out of my skin, but it remains the same. It remains discoloured from losing you. It remains rough, tainted, dry.
I now look at our old pictures, not only to see and remember you, but to remember myself – what I used to be, who I used to love, the soft curve of my smile. Sometimes the woman in the photos, the woman you loved, she feels as far away as you do.
Somewhere in your hometown, on a nondescript piece of asphalt is permanently stained. Your blood. Your precious, fragrant, expensive blood. I wonder, did the ground mourn as I do, having felt the remainder of your life seeping from your body? Did it curse your killer and promise to be a witness for you in front of God, having absorbed your blood into itself? Did it seethe with anger?
Your blood, I’m sure, has been wiped away by passing cars, by the heat of the Egyptian sun, by the torrid rains of the Egyptian winter. To the naked eye, you are gone. But regardless of seasons and regardless of the elements, that piece of ground will always be stained with your blood.
My heart will always be stained with losing you.