the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Month: June, 2014

I Still

I still call you. Some think so I can still hold power over you. I don’t think so. I still love you, is all. But this love is different now. I must love you with no pretense of acting on it or the consequences of not. You are an idea I love. You are this story. I text you, “Will you marry her?” And you’re answer is always, “No.” But whenever I call, you’re mashing her potatoes and cooking her steak. I picture you standing in your beige kitchen with the bottle of Jack by the sink and the fan on while you smoke. I see her tiny leopard print sandals with the fake diamonds on the straps, so tiny, on the sad beige carpet. I remember folding her PINK sweatpants while I did your laundry in your apartment the day after I came to have lunch with you and stayed the whole week while she was in rehab. You cried when I left. You begged me to stay. I wanted to, to stay with you in that ugly beige apartment, locked away from everything that could make anything harder.

“If I moved there would you be with me?” “Only one way to find out.” When my own love saw that, he said he thought his head was going to explode. All I could say was I’m sorry because I didn’t want to hurt him. But I couldn’t say I was sorry I had said the words at all. I couldn’t pretend that they were never there. It used to work.

I love you. I still love you. Why doesn’t that mean anything anymore? Why doesn’t that bring me to my feet, to your door, to you, why doesn’t that bring you to me? Why does it just live there? Existing on its own, like a piece of bridge floating in the water. Utterly useless. It could go on forever. We could go on forever. Maybe that is why I let myself keep loving you. To preserve us, untouched and perfect in this story. So that when I die I can tell myself I have known perfect love. I am a fucking selfish fool, but you have always known that and loved me still.


I am 25 years old and I have 50 regrets. Thirty of them are about you. I used to wander lost but now I am too found. I used to live in deafening darkness but now I stand frozen in the light. Now I know everything is shit and stone.  And money can’t buy happiness but without money you have no freedom and freedom is joy, pure joy, bliss, pure bliss. I thought I felt that once. Now I’m not sure. I pretend to be sure. So I have something to look forward to while I pace in this wonderful, beautiful cage by the water with the hammock that sways in the breeze – what a playpen I have. No need for hunting, the fridge is always full of everything I like, and there are always avocados. Here smells delicate and sweet and warm. Except when it’s hot, then here it is perfectly cool. You would love it. I’ve watched so many sunsets I do not see. I do everything the same over and over again. I forget there is anything outside of this gate. I forget why I stayed. I forget why I came. I sleep.

And you’re still here after everything you tried

My mom has the best smell on earth.

I don’t know how she makes it. It’s sweet like flowers and clean like air blown straight from the ocean. It smells like mornings waking up with blankets and pillows up to your ears and looking out the window and staying in bed a bit longer. It’s deep, too, like each layer of her skin possesses some special element and they come together just right.

It’s the sort of smell that makes you want to breathe in forever, believe me, it’s that good.

She also has the loudest stomach.

I would lay the side of my head on her lap and close my eyes when we were on a plane or in the car and listen to that stomach gurgle and pop like the strangest lullaby.

My mom told me to be selfish. She said no one would ever care about me as much as I did. And she told me I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. And she loved me twice. Did you know someone could do that?

She always made it OK to cry.

Oh, and my mom has a great smile – one that crinkles shut the soft, paper skin around her eyes and shows all of her front teeth, the fake ones with the blue gums that she hates.

I love my mom. She is the only mom I will ever have in this lonely world.