one half of your inhales

people will harp on and on about being alone in unfamiliar places, but, love, that’s what independence is. i’ll tell you about standing in a room surrounded by nothing but thirty-seven thousand silver balloons (and one red balloon), gasping to catch myself, and shit, do you understand that it’s half of the air in a given space, can you feel how tangible it’s become, do you stop moving to hear how silent the world has become around you? i’ll repeat myself because you’re not listening; it’s half the air in a given space, it means that some contemporary artist at the Henry Art Gallery will try to take away your breath, take away exactly one half of your inhales, but you can breathe just fine, darling. and eventually you’ll find your way and walk out all dazed, because it’s a rush, it’s overwhelming and it crowds into your space and it’s a reminder of what’s been taken from you, but trust me when i say that you can breathe just fine, because that’s what independence is all about.

{or maybe i’ve simply reached an entirely new level of pretentiousness where i can’t stop rambling about art exhibits people visit just to run through balloons and feel like a child again}

so it goes

do you understand those three little words tattooed across your heart, there for as long as you could remember?

of course you don’t.

you’ve had the same songs on repeat for weeks on end, you’ve memorized the way the guitar strums sound, your fingers can trace the delicate strands of piano melodies in the air. you’re holding your breath for something, someone, and you have to realize, no, understand, that it’s never going to happen the way you imagine it will. you speak in a language foreign to your ears and try to lose yourself in unfamiliarity, you stumble over your words, and what you don’t understand is that it’s becoming nothing more than routine, days blurring by in the glare of the sun.

you’re gasping for breath but you see, you can’t inhale other people’s exhales.

and it feels like i’m screaming at you, stop asking me questions that i won’t can’t answer, don’t listen to me, is everything being drowned out by the pointless waves of wanting to be significant? let you tell me that nothing matters, tell me that no one is going to miss me, tell me about a dimension that we can’t see, one that we can disappear into. it’s so unoriginal, and it’s the only thing that offers comfort late at night, and this isn’t right, and it’s all you’ve ever known.

they will tell you that there’s been a tragic accident, or that there’s been a misunderstanding, or that it’s bad news. i’ve never been the reassuring type, really, but i can assure you that it will not be tragic, it will certainly not be an accident or a misunderstanding, it will not be bad news. how can you deny someone their only escape when they’re suffocating? it’s only a matter of time, it’s only the question of when, and don’t ask for the reasons—you won’t want to know. they will tell you that they’re sorry, and there is nothing to be sorry about; it’s just the way things are, it’s just the way chemicals work, it’s just the gentle grace of gravity, it’s just the way i’ve always been.

wish you were here

at this point, i don’t know if i’m simply spouting out pink floyd titles in the air,
or speaking to ghosts faded into the walls.

the words sour in my mouth, repeated one too many times,
leaving a bitter aftertaste, not unlike
the way you left a world you didn’t want to call home anymore.

colors don’t paint as vibrant as they did years ago—
do you remember the endless blue of the skies,
the reds of the bricks, the greens of the landscape?
we could pass hours upon hours
trying to count every hue and shade; instead,

we spent hours daydreaming. lulled by the summer haze
(but you didn’t love the way the sun wrapped its warmth around your freckled skin).
we spent hours breathing. sharing the same air
(but you didn’t love the way your lungs knew how to inflatedeflateinflatedeflate).
we spent hours running. shoes hitting the track, constant like strums
(but you knew what you were running from, and you didn’t think you could outpace it).

it’s been months. please wake up.

darling,

oh darling. i miss seeing you everyday.
you still send me photographs but it’s not the same.
nothing captures the light in your eyes, or the way you muffle your laughter just right.
days like these are days i’d like to call you up and choke my words down,
just to hear your voice again,
though you’d like to hide behind jokes and nonchalance.

don’t call yourself worthless, darling,
when you mean the world to me.
don’t say that you’re mediocre,
when you’ve pulled me out of the abyss multiple times.

i still flip through our old conversations,
and you stuck by me all this time.
thank you for being genuine,
thank you for being you.
i’m so sorry.

and i would tell you all of these things,
write them in clouds streaking across the sky just so you could see,
but you’re away,
and i’ve left months ago.