I have "100 Ways" by Porno for Pyros in my head. I thought about you and me a hundred ways. I am so glad for your brief flight into my life. I want you to know that I will always recall you fondly, that you will always be dear to my heart. I'm so grateful to know you and your uneven head, your velvet hair, your crooked smile, your caring touch, your joyful laugh, the guttural giggle you can elicit from deep inside me. The way you look at me when you read my mind. Oh that knowing stare! The gratitude in your eyes when I can read your mind.
There are so many things I do adore about you. You came into my life at the exact perfect time. You inspire in me the desire to write short stories about lust and hope and deep, deep connections. And your beautiful heart-- oh your heart my dear! I hope you find the means to nurture it to let it grow vines and wings of its own. I will always hope for you. Know that you always have a cheerleader, a comrade, a groupie in me. Good night my darling, I hope you like receiving late night semi-drunken love letters.
Birds built their homes right above our bed...
Xoxo
Showing posts with label Alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alcohol. Show all posts
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Pain
This pain is a cancer.
That line was the skipping record in my brain as I drove away from the airport that awful early July morning of goodbye, leaving my love behind.
The pain felt like a tumor – it was a lump in my throat, my chest that impeded my breathing and left me teetering on the edge of explosion. It felt like a deep, raw wound that would fester and grow and consume me if I didn’t pay it proper attention and care.
Grieving, anguished, sorrowful, brokenhearted, wallowing.
Today the pain feels like a hangover that won’t go away. The kind of hangover you get when you have saturated your body, your blood, your brain with alcohol. The first day you want to die. You cry for your mother and your crimes as you crawl back and forth from the bathroom. Moving beyond that is simply not an option. The second day you’re not as damaged but you are fragile, vulnerable, cautious, aching. I feel like midnight between these days. But there’s no 3rd day relief in sight.
And its a pain that exhausts. And you don't want to feel it and you try to push it down, to think of other things, to avoid it for a few minutes.
But you've already established that this pain is a cancer, and if ignored or even just temporarily set aside, it will boil up uncontrolled. Like 7am on the first hangover day after only getting 2 hours of sleep, you remember you're just at the beginning of the awful part. And there's no option but to let it run its course.
So you hang on for dear life and cry freely. And you know that each tear wept releases a bit of the cancer from inside you. And the same goes for every word you're brave enough to write.
That line was the skipping record in my brain as I drove away from the airport that awful early July morning of goodbye, leaving my love behind.
The pain felt like a tumor – it was a lump in my throat, my chest that impeded my breathing and left me teetering on the edge of explosion. It felt like a deep, raw wound that would fester and grow and consume me if I didn’t pay it proper attention and care.
Grieving, anguished, sorrowful, brokenhearted, wallowing.
Today the pain feels like a hangover that won’t go away. The kind of hangover you get when you have saturated your body, your blood, your brain with alcohol. The first day you want to die. You cry for your mother and your crimes as you crawl back and forth from the bathroom. Moving beyond that is simply not an option. The second day you’re not as damaged but you are fragile, vulnerable, cautious, aching. I feel like midnight between these days. But there’s no 3rd day relief in sight.
And its a pain that exhausts. And you don't want to feel it and you try to push it down, to think of other things, to avoid it for a few minutes.
But you've already established that this pain is a cancer, and if ignored or even just temporarily set aside, it will boil up uncontrolled. Like 7am on the first hangover day after only getting 2 hours of sleep, you remember you're just at the beginning of the awful part. And there's no option but to let it run its course.
So you hang on for dear life and cry freely. And you know that each tear wept releases a bit of the cancer from inside you. And the same goes for every word you're brave enough to write.
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