on conversations about nothing

while conversing about nothing at the witching hour with my class of bright-eyed believers in the night, i wondered at the simplicity with which we complicate our lives and so decided, with conviction, to walk away from the inexcusable situation.  

it all started in a house, with a feud over hairspray and what is acceptable, respectively, by gender, orientation, so on… and tempers flared with the cigarettes being smoked on the porch. 

it was a strange night, without honey moon or breath of wind.  there was a chair in the overgrown yard that sat among the brambles and it whispered to the long-haired girls; it spoke of wishes not granted, treasures, waves that never reach the shore.   

and the matches were on, streaming five minutes behind and the boys had their eyes glued to the screen, their lips to their bottles.  they sat in hush, somewhere between awe and jealousy. 

so we smiled and manifested the stars in our eyes, slim jaws, frame and accidental flash, in a small wild (what we did with our lives!) what bothered us was how the time passed.

and it passed and passed and played with my watch and we didn’t leave until the police came or perhaps it was just a mistake, a loud story, because we were all confused by then.  

down hills and misconstrued, the night tightened its fingers around the strange and we all felt it, though we kept it to ourselves; raised eyebrows, soft smirks, everyone causes trouble sometimes.

and so what if you want to converse about nothing for hours, so do it.  so what if you stand in the street lamp glow and talk of ratios and likelihoods and labyrinth like lanes, so if that’s what you want to do. 

but i hate this: composed complexities, indelible waiting, knees bent alternatively with alternating calls.  i have no patience for the wavering, a hemming vacillation, pockets full of secrets.  and if you want to do nothing be sure you love nothing, because what is this life, if not doing what you love?

wick

this is for my friends. 

my faraway loves. 

this is for the wreckage and the repairs, the rings we sewed in our socks, the nights that lay forgotten on the sidewalks, 
ice and black licorice.  

for the needs and radiobeans and other places with dark benches and sticky tables, our names etched in the edges, our rebellion, our carelessness, a legacy.  

pitchers and plastic cups on the kitchen floor, we were witches and we ruled our kingdom (a wooded garden, a secret path) with a flickering, faint grace. 

and what a world we made for ourselves there: dim lights and long mirrors, dimples and white teeth, closets shared, hallways, tears and pillows, fears held as close as consolations, consolations confused with cat eyes - coal, painted fingers, i knew we were beautiful and i felt safe in the confines of our beauty.

my memories are, perhaps, more resplendent than the reality of our academic bohemia, impoverished and riotous, i love them.  

and now in my big bed, i remember smaller blankets, books and spaces (budding hills and window sills) that would not have been the same without you.  

my beautiful babes, lovely, wild, co-op thieves, five lives in the library, stone steps and computer chess games. 
my girls, my throat tightens, i have more to say, but words are like stains: reminiscent, faded… 

i want so badly to tell you i love you, tell you i recall everything (like a child, bright eyes, bright colors), 
tell you not to forget me though the hollows unfold between us, 
to tell you you're my favorites and favorites don’t fade.

breakup

there are periods in life, fleeting, torrid, when the world goes wild and your heart beats for everything you’ve lost and your breath in the air in front of you holds the weight of these losses.  there are times, the breaking of love, a space in your chest, when every action is acceptable, when the daylight comes too quickly and you keep your friends close in the opening atmosphere so you wont have to be alone. 

for three months i pushed and pushed and pretended and played and wondered at how my body worked as i took the bus to school in the morning.  for three months i decided not to deal, stolen moments, stolen time, with the reality of what had vanished, in minutes, from around me.   a life, the settling of feelings, a standard comfort, was erased with the closing of an apartment door; years gone, swallowed in accusatory silence, seconds passed in eternities, what i had grown to know was no longer.

not a single word - scents stir something in my stomach, sights bring a lingering sorrow, with his rash action (humiliation, shameful face) he took the happiness from our two years.  Thief of joy, time bandit, I need to learn not to regret my mistakes in life.  These are the real lessons, the notebooks piled on your desk, dusty, still relevant, that you open, repeatedly, persistent as the seasons, when you forget who you are.