Powered by Blogger.

From A Long Time Ago (I Still Love You)

Shot and Color

How do laundromats make their money? They pay utilities for the constantly running washers and dryers and have to count piles of coins to make up for it. It seems like a grossly mismatched payoff, but the same could be said about you and me and I'm still here.
I've been writing a lot about pain and love and how they manage to tangle themselves together so very often. And when I say writing, I mean making note after note after note on my phone of jolted lines and memories that make the heat of immovable air in my room nearly unbearable. 
What is it about pain, exactly, that is so much easier to trust than love? The source? The deservedness? 
Why do I look in the mirror and search for the weight of you behind my eyes?
I used to think that existing only in the dark was a negative, a sign that rain and the depth of night was the only thing keeping us alive. But every time I leave, the sun feels exhaustingly bright.
I'm living in this very temporal space. My clothes and pictures and notebooks sit in a room that I return to only to leave again. I let lettuce rot in the fridge and wine go sour on the windowsill. I cannot relax for the ten minutes it takes to get out of the city. I am living here, but I'm holding on to there so much tighter. 
I used to think I could do it. I could be the smart one and never look back. I could make it. But then I see the way your hair is mushed against the back of your head in the morning, as I watch you cook eggs and toast, and I can barely swallow my heart back into my chest.
You ask me how the movie was. Disgustingly cheesy. A 2000s pre-teen joyride. I miss you the kind of way you can physically feel but I just saw you two days ago so I cannot admit that.
In case you couldn't tell, I cannot walk the not-so-fine line of graceful mystery and garish oversharing. One or the other. All or nothing. Sound familiar? 
I don't mind going to the laundromat. You put all your loads in next to each other, a minute or so apart. You watch them whirl and whirl. You know exactly what to expect and when. The space you occupy is for a reason. There is no questioning, no hesitation. Only the mind-numbing drone of machines stripping what they can.
This is the thing-are you ready? I would leave you every day if it meant I get to come back.

No comments