Little Slice of Time

It’s late.

It’s always late when the three of us inevitably end up in the living room.

We talk nonsense.

There’s soft jazz playing in the background, music from your computer. It sounds like the soundtrack to that moment, and the humming of the fan reminds me of those still, humid afternoons back home. The air is stagnant and still, and the three of us sit under those dim lights, and it seems as if we are insulated from the outside world, in a little bubble of our own.

You make me laugh with your random statements, and confuse us two by going off on a tangent about naming body parts. I tell you you fill out my jeans better than I do, and we trade ass jokes for a little while.

You’re oh so formal, with your “Hello, how are you’s?”, despite the fact that we’ve known each other for almost four years, and I wander in and out of your bedroom to disturb you on a regular basis.

You, the other you, confound me with bombastic phrases from architectural magazines you read out at random intervals. I give you confused looks, and we laugh that same slightly amazed laugh at the strangeness of literature.

You’re oh so funny, with your random paranoia, and the edginess. How you wonder if you should have more coffee. Your excited highs and reflective silences. We talk about politics and history and old movies. We laugh at celebrity fashion bloopers and MadTV and I ask you personal questions which you don't always have to answer.

There’s you on the floor, you curled up on the couch, and me outstretched on the sofa bed after I’ve dragged my comforter out, in that little boxed up space in the living room.

There’s always music, or the television in the background.

I’m usually the first to fall asleep.

You’re always the first to wake up, and you’re usually last.

It always amazes me how much you’re able to sleep.

You always wake me up when you leave the house, and I roll over and wave bye to you as you walk out of the door.

It’s early.

I can’t help thinking how much I like this midnight scene of the three of us, just sitting and talking in that little slice of time. It never crossed my mind that I would be living with the two of you, but I am finding myself content and happy.

Sometimes I wonder if I could freeze time, and capture this moment. Exactly the way it is in my mind.

It’s always late.

A Moment of Self Deprecation

Tread the pain, day by day,
Smile false smiles and walk away,
Time will heal and erase the pain,
Soften the memories, let them wane,
But time is no essence for the impatient,
Those souls forever seeking absolvement,
Please heal, please mend, please make it okay,
Please do it now, please do it today.


The world is spinning and I cannot tell
The difference between what’s false and what’s real,
How much is the truth and how much is a lie,
How much is confusion, how much’s gone awry,
Friendships become distant, we all grow apart,
Family is question, those poor bleeding hearts,
And I slowly splinter in pieces and bits,
Those near me suffer the cuts as they hit.

But after all that ranting, the lines of woe,
I realize that I’m just being emo.

Hello and Goodbye

Dear you,

Once upon a time I wrote you a letter. I wrote of the two of us, of love, of friendship. I wrote of my hopes and dreams, and I sealed it away and never told anyone about it. This time again, I write to you, but never would I have dreamed that I would be writing such words.

Every beginning comes to an end, and I guess I never realized the story of us would be over so fast. It’s been three wonderful years, perhaps a little bit more, and I think I’ve experienced more in these three years than I ever could have otherwise.

Perhaps I’m not the right person for you, and you for me, but I believe things happened the way they did for a reason. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make in my life, and the past two months have been like hell unleashed because of it. My relationship with my loved ones suffered because of my inability to accept my waning feelings, and I don’t know whether things will ever be the same again.

You never deserved this, and I never did this to hurt you. It’s ironic that the best decision is sometimes the most hurtful one. I am sorry to be the one to have broken your heart, and even more sorry the way it happened.

If I could have done otherwise, we would have had five less days together. You say you never meant what you said, but those words closed my heart to you, and I don’t know why. Breaking point, they call it. I wish I had the courage to tell you that I already made a decision, but I didn’t, and things turned out like a fucking soap opera.

Some will say the distance, some will blame other people, and some will point fingers at our spontaneous decision to do what we did.

I know you know the truth, behind all the opinions and thoughts of others, for you know what I told you and you know my feelings. I feel like glass, and the past months I’ve been more vulnerable than I realized. It is a relief to not have to pretend anymore.

I’m sorry for all those things I could not say then.

I’m sorry I can no longer love you the way you want me to.

Maybe we aren’t meant for each other, and maybe we are, but not as the people we are now. Not me, in any case, being as broken as I am, and you deserve someone whole and a lot less confused. I can only pick up the pieces of me and start the progress of putting myself back together, but I cannot have you there and suffer while I cut you again and again in this process.

Thank you for those beautiful moments. You always made me feel loved, and in some ways you made me realize my strengths and weaknesses and that helped me grow. Thank you for the times when you held me and laughed with me and cried with me. I can only hope you find happiness with another, someone who is whole and not broken. Thank you for those words you told me when you left. You will always be an important part of my life, and thank you for understanding.

Most of all, thank you for still being my friend.

Today as I write this, I realize how much I miss you, but I cannot tell if I am missing the familiarity, or the memory of you, rather than you yourself.

In two weeks, we’ve become more distant, and I am thankful that in the least we are able to sit and talk civilly. I hope that perhaps in time, civility will turn into genuine friendship, and perhaps we can let go of our pasts and move on to a new future.

“We’re not too bad now, are we?” you managed to say, smiling, even though I knew it was painful for you.

Here’s looking at you.

I don’t know how to express how sorry I am.

These Words

Some things I’ll never say.

Some things I cannot.

Sometimes I don’t know what to say. And sometimes I don’t know if it will make any difference. Sometimes I wonder if anyone will know what to do. And sometimes I feel like I deserve all that has happened.

Only one time I have been ashamed, only one instance.

Only this time do I not have any idea what I want to say.

Only this time do the words repulse me, only this time my does my throat feel like closing up every time I try to say the words, only this time the words remain stuck in my throat.

If I told you would you listen?

But what difference would it make?

Assassin

Let the assassination of my character begin.

You are the outsiders, the ones who know nothing, and yet have the strongest opinions of all.

What do you know about us; about the dynamics of the relationship? What do you know about our trials and tribulations, about the road we travelled together? What do you know of me, and the situation? What do you know about the background of my actions, and the reasons why I did what I did?

I know what will be said.

The slut, the whore.

I care not for your words and your opinions of my actions.

Let those words run away with you, for I doubt anything I say or do will make the difference. I know my innocence and my guilt, and despite the way the situation looked, I care not to apologize for something I did not do.

Let your imaginations run wild, and I know they will. Let the story be told and retold a hundred and one times, each time more fanciful than the next and let my character go through the web of fiction and fantasy, each time sounding more and more like the villainous wretch of a thousand ages.

The ones who know the full story will understand, but I will protect the other parties involved and no one else will know the context of the story. My character has been set in people’s minds, and let them think what they will.

I know my actions, and I have told him otherwise. Maybe I’m insensitive, but at least I’m an honest fool. And that’s enough.