there are times when presence is all you need.

the trapeze act was hard to follow

And the world spun on its head the night we first touched, his fingers twirling against my knee, the music just beginning to sigh, watching him walk over the hill, pour coffee into a cup and smile, following the moon together with traces of white breath, dark air, and then our hands touched, and here we are, lying down with smiles on our eyes, and he draws closer, holds me tight, and suddenly every laugh and gesture make sense, and I love him in that moment, I love him tonight.

as the brass faded with the tinkering of a cowbell

The music is beautiful during the daytime, when he is holding me and I am breathing in his hair, traces of cigarettes and soap. I beat my fingers to the rhythm on his chest, patches of curly brown hair spread with every tap, thump, and he smiles. His fingers trace my temple and I tell him how much I love that, our eyes align and there are flecks around his pupils, honey, soft. I find myself caught in suspension in those moments, when the world hasn't fully caught up to us, to this. I can say anything in those moments and feel the milky air brush us so soft. I think I love you, I told him. I want to love you, he says. Is this what love is, I ask. And the moment is still suddenly divine, when we share this space separated only by lungs and rhythms of the heart, bodies tangled under quilted sheets, over a tiny bed. I wish there were an emotion to describe that moment, other than happiness, one that describes the shivers I get when his fingernails cross my bare back, the feeling I get when he breathes out my name, that moment where we float together, when we forget the sins of our past, the uncertainty of the future. There are times when I don't know what I want, but in that moment I am sure that he is it, and I find myself in that certainty, in that longing. He's mine, with those eyes, long hands and calloused fingertips, and when he is holding me it suddenly becomes natural to strip myself of everything I hold up for the rest of the world to scrutinize. I have dreams of this moment when I find clarity in the world, beautifully unexpected, unexpectedly beautiful, when I belong as one piece unbroken. I take my jewelry off in these dreams and undress my thighs, pick up a microphone and move to the noises of the world, dance to the sounds of furious streets, crying babes, and raucous laughter. I find myself amidst the confusion, losing only what was not necessary to hold onto from the beginning, and I hold him tighter.

honey hollows

It was a Saturday morning when I woke up to a note on his pillow, I’ll be right back, it read. I remember rolling over and smiling in his smells, back aching from the weight of my belly, hungry and still sleepy. He came through the door, a faded blue shirt, clean jeans, and baby’s breath. Did you bring me flowers, I asked him. He handed me a small arrangement of purples yellows with green stems and small white baby’s breath. I love you, he said. I love you too. I got up to drain a small vase and arranged the flowers, setting it on our windowsill, for light, I told him.

We walked through the town that day, his hand holding mine, occasionally reaching over to touch my belly, through streets with mismatching signs and past the park where the crazies slept. I stopped in front of a café and he asked me to wait outside, he came back holding two cups and kissed me. Rooibos. Did you sneak a taste of mine, I asked. He smiled, handed me a warm cup of herbal tea, and locked his warm hand in mine. We bought tomatoes that day, ripe ones from the farmer’s market, red yellow and plump, and large grey mushrooms, yellow onions already beginning to peel, a box of noodles, the cheapest ones we could find. We walked around the carts, tasting small sweet red strawberries, juices flowing down our fingers and we bit into one.

We made spaghetti that night. He cut through tomatoes and their red yellow juices flowed freely down the wooden cutting board to the sink. He sliced mushrooms into small thin as paper portions, diced the onions in uneven lengths, and cut through red yellow green bellpeppers, dropping them all into a large silver pot on our stove. I would make him close his eyes occasionally, stop what he was doing, pop a bellpepper in his mouth and make him guess the color. The water began to boil when he was done with the slicing and I dropped a handful of dry noodles into the pot. I blew on the small frosty bubbles and they disappeared, revealing yellow noodles and clear hot water.

when i think again,

She tucked her hands under the bend of her knees, lying still in a bed with sheets that still smelled like his sleep. You could be happy played on repeat, against the whir of the heater. It still hurt. The things that he had meant to take with him, the things that he had left behind with her, still stood stacked against the white wall, next to the suitcase she had meant to pack.

They left, drunken and happy, one by one, leaving behind half-empty bottles of bourbon, empty cans of diet coke, and a thick scent, dark with musk. Dead leaves, withered and skeletal, trickled through his open door and a faint howl resonated through deep brambles just beyond the hills. She leaned over a stack of half empty cups, shivering to reach a pack of reds. The paisley blanket covered what little she had left of her wasted body. And she sobbed. A thin darkness enveloped the wooden floor where she lay and the sound of leaves pounding through the open door drowned her cries.

He came, feet dragging across the room, and a shallow t-shirt stained in blue clung to his pale skin. He looked at her.

The air was cold the night she fucked someone else. The screeches of cats and tires against his moans and her cries. He touched her hair, cupped her breasts, and told her that she was special. That he liked her. She cried as she told him, “I have a boyfriend.” He asked her if the necklace she wore was special and she cried as she told him it was. He told her that he was going to kiss her now, and he did, his mouth met hers through her tears, silently sucking the noise out of her cries. She stayed still. She lay still as the shadows of his motions flickered against the walls. Her eyes were shut tight when he came, when he collapsed next to her and reached for her body.

She woke up the next day, cheeks still damp with sweat-mingled tears, and sat up with her back against his cold metal backboard. He had left and she gathered her things slowly, taking her time to dress, the khaki shaded bra, the shirt stamped with pictures of persimmons, and the faded jeans. She walked out.

is it ever enough?

I pack up the boxes, loading them one by one, and the world is blurry. What I had known once was now gone, and I am lost. I lifted an old shopping bag into the trunk and a red mug, once held Ceylon, his lips, dropped, shattered. I missed that moment, when something knocked it out of its position inside the bag and midair before it hit the ground. And I left the pieces there, on the side of the road, where I had once stood holding his hands, both of his in both of mine.

hey people looking out the window at the city below

We linked arms under the beginning progression of chords that we both knew well and bodies pressed into us, against the barriers, towards the gods on the wooden stage. Hollow sounds contrasted with the furious strumming, drums banging against the rhythm of the room. And suddenly the room caught up. Empty pint glasses rested on abandoned tables, heads bobbed, and the musicians strummed, sang, beat. I closed my eyes.

The music dimmed and so did the lights, leaving behind a musty scent of sweat, bodies, and people began to scatter. We went outside then, resting our heads and our backs against the wet patch of grass across the street from the tavern. Raising cigarettes to our faces and blowing streams of smoke into the air cold wet. The bruise on his chin smarted and he reached over. His hand, my knee, fingers crossed. I looked at him then, and tasted lager on his breath. I caught mine, and he kissed me. He stood up first, shirt damp and clinging from the grass, and I found his hand again. He walked with a hand in his black jeans pocket and told me that pretentiousness could be good.

Cars swung by and the lights blurred as I reached out the window of his car, leaned and smiled into the air. He turned up the sound and the rest was inaudible; the world was noisy in that moment.