The Writing's on the Wall

Or, in today's case, the stall. I don't particularly pay attention to the random scrambling of words and thoughts on bathroom stall walls, but one section of lines caught me off guard today. What I originally thought was a stanza of a poem was really lyrics to song broken in four lines. I always think it's interesting to see how other people break thoughts or lines into segments--which is why I even noticed this particular scribble on the wall in the first place.

After reading the first two words, "My hopes," I literally felt my heart flutter inside me, I knew what was to immediately follow those words, the feeling was familiar, the lines were rehearsed, a memory of you came flooding back to me, ironically in the privacy of a public bathroom.

My hopes are so high
that your kiss might
kill me so won't you
kill me, so I die happy?

I laughed to myself realizing "our song" held significance to someone else, so much so in fact that they needed to write out the lyrics on the bathroom stall. And then I laughed out loud at the realization that we even had a song--who has songs nowadays?!

I cannot describe the way I miss you, it's not the kind of "miss you" like I yearn for you and want you back, no. It's mostly the way in which I miss you, how when I think about you a cheesy smile surfaces, how when I talk about you, people don't believe me. When I read the lyrics to our song on the wall today I told my friend, Jacky, about it, about you, and us. I told her the story of how I sent you flowers for your 26th birthday--and how at the very mention of it, she laughed in my face in disbelief. "You? Sent...him...flowers?" she said. And then I explained how I couldn't see you on your birthday because it was in the middle of the week and you, my dear, are in Wisconsin. She told me that she wished she knew me when we were together because she cannot imagine the kind of person I was then (with you), especially knowing the person that I am now. I told her how our away messages were lines from "Hands Down," by Dashboard Confessional--a song, our song, that no matter how many times I listen to and no matter where I am when I do, your face is the only one I see.

I make such a conscious effort to not be in a relationship that when I stop and remember when, I remind myself of who I was and what I wanted, a question that I still don't know the answer to. What I do know is that I've never been more myself than when I was with you.

When I texted you today to tell you about the writing on the wall, I knew immediately how you would respond. And now, even as I write this, you cannot stop texting me. I love that we can exchange memories and thoughts and feelings without worrying about anything, about overstepping our boundaries or crossing any lines.

I love that I know you so well. I smile in reflection at all the things I loved about you. I admired the drive you had in finishing school and remember how in the middle of your night classes you IMed me as your professor walked by. I loved that in the midst of your busy schedule you coached middle school basketball, and I love that now that you've graduated and are working full-time you STILL coach basketball.

I can't explain why the last time we saw each other (two years later) everything felt the same, exactly the same. There was no pressure, no awkward sexual tension, it just felt right. You came over and we watched Smoking Aces in my bedroom, I can't remember when or even why, but you took my hand in yours and I remember not even realizing it until I had to get up and stop the DVD when the movie ended.

I don't know why all of this is coming back to me now, or even what it means, but I am grateful for you, your very being and the side of me you brought out when I was with you, a side of myself that I haven't seen years.

I listened to Dashboard during my entire ride home today, on the train and even in my car as I drove back. When the acoustic strumming of guitar strings began in "The Ghost of a Good Thing," I teared up. I remembered how a line from the song ("Love is like a role that we play,") was my away message, and you IMed me, our first conversation in months. I'm sorry I made it impossible for you to talk to me. I'm sorry that for the next year or so afterwards, the only conversation we had was through lines of lyrics in our away messages. But I think in not saying what we wanted to directly to each other, the words of these songs gave us the dialogue we needed because we simply would not have done it justice. And most of all, I'm sorry that I told you I loved you back (for the first time) in an e-mail. I'm sorry for a lot of things.

I don't know why you are in my life. I don't know why you were in the first place, but I am certain there's a reason. I might not find out today, or tomorrow, or in a year, but I believe I'll figure it out when the time is right.

Intimations

Your red Triple Five
Soul hoodie, amusement at
its fit falling
just above my knees.

Space that used to be mine
upper left nook that I molded in
to without effort. I fell in love with a
space.

A drive. you took my hand
in yours like you needed to be
near me. I fell
asleep against you. Three hours later
you had
not yet let go.

Admiration in your gaze
watching me.
I sat across from you
eating semi-raw,
undercooked ramen--the
only way you knew I ate them.

Halloween. Hours of preparation secured
my tiara. "Bobby pin" significance.
Urgency. you pulled me
in to you. Ripping--no tearing, it off. Freeing
long, black curls against naked skin.

Friday nights balled under blankets
on your couch. You always let me
have the outside. Your favorite way
to hold me.

Racing you out of the driveway
in the morning.
Side mirror "I love you's."

Two clotted blots of black on
your white button down. Vulnerability
in the craning of your neck--straining
to hear me over fireworks.

Firmness. You carried
me, cradled. You carried me
everywhere, careful. I'd remind you
I wasn't
so fragile.

Nursing home shifts. Messed hair,
chapstick, white scrubs. The way
you said, "You're beautiful," newly. Like
it was the first time every time.

Camels and Acqua di Gio--
violent inhalations.

Letter to myself

Dear Natasha, (age 17)

Please remember not to judge people at face value. Looks aren't everything and yours will fade. Know that the unrelenting pain you feel when you think of him will end. It will take three years, but you will stop loving him. He, however, will not stop loving you and he will do everything in his power to remind you of this. Be strong. You will throw away every picture. You will also throw away his basketball shirt, his lacrosse shirt and his football shirt. Find something else to sleep in. Don't makeout with complete strangers, you're not that kind of girl. Stop selling yourself short, give yourself only to those who inspire you. Let people in. Don't be so cynical about life and love. Quit going to bed with your makeup on. Try not to be so impulsive...with your spending, with your choice in men, with your lifestyle in general. It's not healthy. You will be the other woman. Don't let it happen again. You'll give one too many eulogies, prepare yourself for the worst kind of heartache ever imaginable, you'll piece it back together eventually. Family is forever. That is unconditional. They will always love you, when you forget this (and you will), all you need to do is ask because sometimes you just need to hear that someone loves you. Turn your cell phone off at night. When you go to bed, so does your phone. No one important will text you in the middle of the night, and the ones that do only do so because you leave it on. No, you didn't love Eric, but let him down easy. Consider his feelings as if they were your own. You and Justin are incompatible for the long term. It doesn't matter how much your mom liked him or how much he will compromise to make you happy. In college you'll find your soulmate. Her name is Francesca. Smile more, strangers think you look like a bitch. They're right. Slow down, once you get going you tend not to stop. Your body is tired, let it rest. Go to more poetry readings. Save your Kenneth Koch anthology in a safe place. Put your great-grandmother's diamond in your safety deposit box. Damnit, stop procrastinating. Surround yourself with people who truly know you, who want to get to know you, and who accept you for you. Ask questions. Curiosity is knowledge, don't ever forget that. You'll never stop learning, appreciate this. Stop collecting half-filled glasses of water in your bedroom. When it matters most, be sure to say how you really feel. You won't, but still promise to try. You'll stop writing for a little over a year for several reasons. These are not reasons. They are excuses. Know that you will snap out of this and begin writing again. Lastly, wait for someone worthy. Someone who will be the best part of your day. Someone who will make your dreams his dreams and vice versa.

Love,
Natasha (age 22)

Correct me if I'm wrong

but you can't miss someone you've never met. Right? (So why bother saying "I miss you," in the first place?)

Ah, never a dull moment.