With Rings On

She

Fell asleep with her rings on,

Fell asleep with her guard down,

Fell asleep with her voice gone.

She

Never told you what you needed her to say,

Never said things would be better this way,

Never promised what she couldn't keep.

She

Dreamed of Christmas morning,

Dreamed she drank the ocean through,

Dreamed the dog came back to stay;

...She dreamed of you.

XOXO

Plate Tectonic Theory

I look up, because I've now known you for long enough that I can feel when you're expecting something from me and know when I should look up.

During the moment I catch your original glance, I watch it change into a wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights thing, and, feeling bad about this nearly voyeuristic glimpse into your psyche, I let my eyes keep going, skittering past yours after the initial catch and blink of surprise, now drifting by each other like two continental plates enacting plate tectonic theory in motion-- somewhere, because of this, a volcano will erupt, or an earthquake will go off.

An unfamiliar prickle begins at the base of my spine; a feeling I've almost forgotten, like the names of relatives you never see anymore. I realize, belatedly, a day later, after the fact, and after the fact that the alcohol I'd been swimming through has now dissolved into my bloodstream like so many other things, to be forgiven and forgotten and generally not thought much of ever again-- it's because you haven't looked at me that way in a Long Time. Nearly, I might even say, nearly a year.

I'd almost forgotten it, but there it was-- I looked to you like something shiny and new.

XOXO

Come Full-Circle

The first night, you made the White Russians with too much vodka. I drank it anyway, and didn't tell you until later, when I was already too drunk to drive home. Thank god you asked me to stay.

The last night, you made me a White Russian, with knock-off Kahlua, and again, too much vodka. I drank it in a rush non-conducive to walking home all the way across town, and was glad when you called me back.

The first night, we slept naked. It was winter-time and cold-- you pressed up against me. I didn't mind too much, other than the Band-Aid-adhesive feeling of peeling my skin off of your thighs when I went to roll over, where your hairs clung to me with sweat.

The last night, we slept naked. One of the last nights of summer, far too hot to touch, I looked at your alien body as it glowed translucently in the dark beside me, all legs and dark patches of hair, and thought about how weird you looked; how weird it was to be looking at you naked, vulnerable, and with your mouth open, snoring.

It was his birthday. We were both drunk beyond judgement. And Lord knows the soft-spot a mile wide for each other is located between both of our legs. It seemed like The Right Thing To Do. A tip of the hat to a shared history and the fact that human beings are remarkably fallible and Have Needs. An old song and dance, revisited. A waltz nearly a year archaic.

The next morning, I woke up, oddly elated to realize that other than a headache that pounded from the bridge of my nose between my eyes (a bull's eye to point where thinking had NOT gone on), I didn't feel any different.

Strange when you've already cared so much that you can't possibly care any more, every last drop of feeling wrung out of you like a sponge in an emotional vice-grip. Not enough emotional range left in you to switch your settings. Oxytocin orgasms over. Spent.

XOXO