Kimchi and Wine

I let the fermented cabbage and grapes dance together in my stomach. I set my glass on the mini Native American carpet and think, that could have been our life together -- meaningful coasters on carefully selected side tables. We would have been good at it, too -- your minimalism combined with my initiative.

But you're doing that with someone else now, and I stopped caring about aesthetics.

You never liked my spontaneity. I just annoyed you when I got hyper and wanted to feast on the world. I'd bounce around you on the bed as you tried to concentrate and block me out. Eventually, you'd look into my grin and sigh, and I'd let my head drop.

You read four or five books at the same time and kept several journals, or whatever they were. You never told me your thoughts. You'd much rather write them down, or read someone else's version of them. I'd watch you scribble away, wondering what you were writing, wondering if you'd ever ask me what I thought.

I remember how lonely I was when I was with you. Funny how I feel less lonely now that I'm alone. Except for your hands. I remember your hands.

Why can't I cover my face when I want to? Why is it so hard to stay hidden? You didn't understand why I'd stretch your wide hand over my whole face, but you let me do it. And you let me hold it there as long as I wanted.

That's why I miss you.

Love Potion #9

Men:

3 parts confidence, 1 part vulnerability

Women:

2 parts timidity, 1 part sexy, with a dash of indifference

Mix well, and let stand.

In Love

The sky has been layered lately,
rippled.
How intuitive of it.

But it cannot convey the simultaneous stillness
and tumult inside me.
I am erratic and confused
as I sit,
arms holding legs
holding chest,
and wait.

Wait.

What am I waiting for? I can't
remember what I wanted.
Did I want something?
Music, The Microphones, emotion?

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

But wait,
wait.

What used to be
an irritated geyser
becomes soft gurgling curls.
I'm tired.

I'm so tired.

I don't want to give up, but
it's slow and I'm fast.
It's fast and I'm slow.

Something,
I feel something,
intensely.

Nothing,
I find nothing,
consistently.

I hate you, god love you.

Reason #1

I think we should be together because your mouth is wet and mine is dry.

Autumn

"Am I crushing you?" It's my signature question. It never makes sense. I can smell that it's colder now. I'd need a jacket, if I weren't numb from alcohol. I don't feel ready for fall, even though it's my favorite season. It always makes me heavy. I was just getting in the mood to fall in love, but now the feeling's tinted auburn.

That smell reminds me of school. Sinking down into studies, bundling into your mind. I don't feel ready for my mind. I liked ignoring it for the summer -- mindless bounty and restless nights. I don't want to go into introspection, because I'm afraid of what I might discover. No, I'm afraid of what I won't discover. I've thought so much, I've lost track of where I started. What is all this thinking for, if it doesn't relate to action? My head feels infinite, and I'm always getting lost in it, forgetting why I was thinking in the first place.

"No." He's not sure what to think of my question; it seems out of place to him. It is. But I can't find my thoughts right now. All I know is that I like the closeness. I wish I could have the closeness without the complication, and, right now, I can. So I exhale my heavy thoughts and see if I can see him in the sky.

"You guys ready to go?" I'm shocked by the sudden presence of another person. Time to move. My limbs push through the air like deep water -- I wish I could go for a swim. Close my eyes, empty my lungs, and sink to the bottom. Let go of my muscles, be surrounded, submit. Whoops, better concentrate. He'll think I bumped into him on purpose. Maybe I did. But I feel the intimacy slipping away with my consciousness. I want to hold on a little longer. It wasn't enough. Maybe I do want a little complication. Simplicity is overrated.

A Mother

I look around the tiny cottage and see that every little thing is in its place. There's not too much clutter, and every little piece in each little corner was carefully selected for that spot, all collected from the 60-odd years of her life. Even the place is a perfect fit. How did she find a cottage in the middle of New York anyway? And this picnic table in the kitchen section of the room with one candle and a wooden bowl from Japan full of dark chocolate almonds from the co-op on it. The careful selection and planning isn't abundantly obvious, however. It is so well done, it all looks natural and effortless.

She picks at the edges of the hand-woven potholder on the table, flipping it over and over. "Tell me what you like about school," there's some kind of yearning in the glance at her son, but she offers me one as well, for politeness's sake. I smile back and let her get the answer from the person she's actually interested in. She could never see a single flaw in him; she agrees with all of his opinions and ideas. She acts as if she is madly in love with him. "Do you like your tutors?" She pours us both more wine. "Well, you never know, maybe he has something going on at home," her motherly instinct wants to deny all that's negative in the world and hold it far from her sweet child. But he takes it as an attack; she's taking his side. "You're right, honey, I'm so sorry. I have such a bad habit of making excuses for everyone..." She looks at me. I stare at her face, trying to see her genetic make-up. This child of hers could hurl insults at her all day long, all his life for that matter, in a pathetic tantrum and her love for him wouldn't even flinch.

With more strain in her face, trying to give me the same kind of attention, she asks me something. I take it as a sweet gesture, but, knowing I could never withstand that kind of love, I mumble the question away. I just want to observe her more, so I offer a subject for them to continue on. She bums a cigarette from him. I find it sort of adorable, the way she adores him. She's even willing to give herself cancer in order to feel closer to him.

Looking at them, I feel an envy swell up in my chest. I bum a cigarette from him as well and start to pull at the strings of the potholder.

An Addendum

And what is it with men and marriage anyway? They laugh and scoff at women because they supposedly spend their entire lives thinking about marriage. Then, when the thought suddenly strikes their dull minds, they marry the very next woman they come across. Just like that. I mean, really, it is just ridiculous.

Satisfied

I have a hundred loves and no love at all.

The man on the train looking at me though his paper. The clerk at the store, who now recognizes me; his hip son, who works without smiling. The men at work who smile when they see me, and the ones who don't.

Goofy men and serious men. Big boys and skinny boys. Quiet ones; rebellious ones. The ones with long hair and the ones with no hair. Intellectuals and jocks, geeks and musicians.

Glasses and beards and button up shirts. Their hands, their mouths, their shoulders.

When they let me go ahead of them. When they can't stop looking at me, even when they try.

I stand close to the men on the train and breathe them in.

Then I go home, and I feel...

Indian Rock

Indian Rock, something simple like that. A giant bolder formed from God knows what, right in the middle of these little woods. I scramble up the stone while they throw the frisbee back and forth below. I imagine them climbing all over this cold surface as kids to play "King of the World", then as teenagers to smoke a joint. How big this rock must have seemed to them then, and these woods endless. They didn't even notice these things grow smaller as they grew bigger. I envy them their childhood.

It's a strange thing, being in love with two people at once. It isn't about choosing, it never is. The idea of choosing is something forced on the lover by the beloveds, because the beloveds feel jealousy. The lover never feels the need to choose.

But really I was in love with his entire life, including his best friend, his hometown, his family. I loved him in his environment, not as something isolated that I could pull into my own world. He was his best friend and his mother and his nephews and the biodynamic farm and the Waldorf upbringing. He was hiking up Hook Mountain, canoeing to the tiny island for a picnic, playing flip cup with his best friend's little brother, drinking too much coffee, drinking too much beer. He was for me an entire life, a life I wish I had lived and tried to live. So, was it a love born of envy? He was a brooding writer with a nurturing mother. Everything I wanted to be, and I didn't even know it.

But that's the thing, isn't it? I am selfish in the end. I want to be everything. I use people, love them and use them. I want to live their lives for a while. I want to be, for a time, the brooding writer with a nurturing mother, the recalcitrant druggie with spoiling parents, the arrogant ignorant with no father. I want to be the selfless philosopher, the conceited athlete, the reckless traveler, the driven worker. I love their lives, and I want them all for myself, all at once. So, I take them, one at a time, since I can't have everything all at once. When I get bored with one life, I drop it for a new one. Everyone I meet, I take their lives into myself. I want to own each one. I am a heartless cameleon with no skin of my own.