Mon coeur sur ma manche

Building...sandcastles in the sand...
(In the tea pot room.)

I keep forgetting how your words sound. Your words sound good in my mouth, in my lungs, in my organs of Corti (that doesn't seem so long ago, ago, ago, ...). Like the squelching of my new rubber boots in the puddles, or the squeals when I drive through them, or how I sound in my head, when I sing The Last Five Years. We're not fighting it, anymore, just kneading it out, just letting it go, like my hair, or your eyelashes, or the way those sit on my hips, your hands, I mean. My nails keep growing, and I keep forgetting how much I don't like them.
That's where I wear it- on my sleeve, everything's on the tip, tip, tip of my tongue, tongue, tongue, and it spills over- like the milk from the chai tea latte in progress this morning, like the tea dates, like "Did you get my text?" except it's not funny because you did, and I don't even care, and scarves, scarves, scarves, like my grandmother's.
I can't play my own Broadway music.
It doesn't sound right with the right hand notes all missing, or wrong.
Then it shouldn't make sense why I still love it so much.
Why I still love it all so much.
Or maybe it's just me (and you. Always you.)

And there are people who are not ever going to be let go.

Did it hurt, did you feel it? Of course you did. I felt it, too, like an earthquake interrupting that baby laughter. And it was good. And I wish I was better, at this, like you don't think you are. But you are. Do not eat the cats. Eat your vegetables instead,

Ce n'est pas une teste

I'm losing it. Losing that space, that distance, that disparity. The sureness, of where I was going yesterday, tomorrow, in between. There is just this thronging, jazz-hand filled part of me.

Pas trop tard

Wishful thinking. I had it all planned out. We were going to be wonderful


(and I said)

wonderful


(and they said)

I don't actually know that song.

Well, school is almost done. What else is there to say? I still don't really know where I'll be in...3...months time. Well, I do. But I'm hoping that maybe I don't know it yet. I guess I don't give good first impressions. Or none of them had to ever suffer through Grade 10 Piano. Oh well. I'm still content. Contentedly upset. Flowers. Green. Flowers, green and rain. Repeat it, like a mantra.
(Also, by myself).
(And I don't remember how to make friends.)


And a song, someone sings...

C'est tout

Rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel

J'ai besoin de 13 mains

I was a bird, I was a lover.
I am a fighter, a fighter jet ski.
No use trying,
No point denying
And the fork ran away with the spoon.
Je suis un coureur de bois, et je suis d'accord.

(It makes me sick. Physically ill. My heart rises up into my throat and I just don't think that's where it should be. I learned about that, last year in Bio 20. I liked Bio 20. Where did Bio 20 go? I misplaced it, in my mind, along with everything else that was there. I don't actually care about the class, you do know. That's not the point. Knot. Knot. Tie. Tie. Tiger suit. Say no more, say no more.)

And when there was thunder, she'd say, "It's just the angels moving their furniture." Her voice, bright as


as what? You're always supposed to know what comes next. That is the rule. Rules. Spools of thread. Basting thread. Throw it together, loose. Loose. Like camel pants. Like graduation robes.

The sad, sad truth. No. It's not sad. I can see cherry blossoms, greens, rain, best friends, singing, Sunday dinners, wild Pacific salmon, blacks, plain clothes, people. Living. Breathing. I can almost touch. But then, but then, and then, and then. Say no more, say no more. Just breathe. Just lay your head down, and breathe onto me, into me, through me, so close, 


close


real distance, as we measure it


twilight

Dans mon coeur, et dans ma famille

There is something about letters, and something about coziness, and something about bear scratches on my arms that always bring me back to you. 94670778 seconds, 113607360 heartbeats, (probably more if you consider the strength at which yours beats), and so many lovely, funny smiles. Lovely, funny hands. Lovely, funny kisses.

We're going someplace, unpredictable.
(But in the end, it's right.)

...I made a promise to myself.

Un million d'etoiles, un milliard de secondes

There was a single pebble, dropped in a single pool, somewhere in a forest, far far away.
And you know what ripples do. We all know what ripples do.
I feel like I'm being a little bit pushed to the edges right now. The edges of the fabric. The little frayed bits. The edges of the ocean; the white foamy bits. The edges of the circulatory system; those little tiny capillaries at the ends of my fingers that never seem to exchange any oxygenated blood with deoxygenated blood, because they are always cold.

Remember those times, when the light is shining, and the audience is clapping? Remember those times. Things are coming up too fast. Let's play Whac-A-Mole. But not actually. Remember those times. All those, all those hands, held tight, through thin and thick, thick and thin. Hands, hands, erotic hands. Exotic hands? Esoteric hands? Earnest hands. Important hands. 


Like yours. Warmth and strength and so many, many minutes where words were forgotten or whispered or yelled or pushed or pulled or weaved or crocheted or held or cherished or appreciated or adored. The sun is still shining. I remember hills of green. I remember swings. I remember never letting go, and haircuts to match Carey Mulligan's. Don't forget. Please don't forget.
It's not like I could.
On me, and in me, and all around me. For so long I don't remember otherwise.

Rien d'importance

And then I remember, this is only the start
How much I love the rain
Sweeping, taking, running, loving.
Sweeping me away.
Off my feet,
to the sound of my
alarm clock?

Hands, that take, the sting from pain.
And I feel so lucky. And so wordy. And so out of words. Or maybe we don't need them?
Replaced? Refurnished?
That's quite comfy.
Actually.

Zut alors!

Phlegm, be gone.

It's...it was...that is, it is very...human...izing.


Off to meet my future. I'm going to fall into place. I'm willing myself. Snippinh myself down to fit into that teensy tiny place in the middle of that rainy city by the ocean that I love so much. My hands are reaching, though. My arms can barely touch. They're not that long. I know that I can hold on. There's so much here to grab.
Paperweight.

Malade? Maladroite?

There's that feeling again, where the chicken I've actually been trying to catch among the millions and millions in the 'Chicken of Happiness' cage has been following me, pecking at my heels all along. The satisfaction that it was looking for me, too. I don't see much a compromise there. It's unhealthy, I know, to give up everything, turn down the white chicken, the pig dressed as a chicken, and all the baby chickens, just for the chance at spotting that one brown spotted chicken, but what if...What if you can't be happy, without that one chicken? What if, by compromising and settling for the lesser chickens, you are rendered disappointed and have the mindset of a tragic hero and can never truly be happy with the dilapidated chicken?

Chickens are not smart animals.


There will be compromises. There are going to be myriads of compromises, matching the tears rolling down the stuffy noses, the kisses on necks, stomachs, fingernails, the promises and the commas in our voices where they are being made. Nobody likes to worry. Nobody likes to think about the future. It comes soon enough as is. But when I'm falling, falling, falling into dangerous freckled places and I'm taking the risk and I'm willing to...compromise...
You'll step up. You're awful strong.