I. (What Could Have Been, What Never Was)

Don’t do that.

Stop doing that.

I hate it when you smile like that. A tiny, tiny smile that slowly widens into something so glorious like sunrises or ice cream on the beach.

You can’t just suddenly show up after ten months, two weeks, and three days. Yes, I have the duration counted. As if it matters. I know it doesn’t. See what you have done to me?


and so the paper fell for the ink
and the fingertips for the typewriter keys
but the writer’s muse, oh, the writer’s muse,
still doesn’t know she exists

Dearest Lover,

There will be days when all I can do is sleep and nights when slumber and I aren’t so much as friends. I am a rough storm, a sunny day, fluctuating moods and inexplicable anger.

My life, my behavior, my thoughts aren’t poetic. What I am, how I am, aren’t how the songs tell you. Movies, books, and all that shit. Media has cultivated sadness as an object of romanticism. There is nothing romantic about being awake at two in the morning, unable to sleep because of nightmarish thoughts and a tidal wave of numbness washing over you.

Will you be able to handle me at my worst? Will you be able to handle me when I can’t even handle myself? (I hope you will. I hope you do.)