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.

Les mots qui n'existe pas

L’esprit de escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated it means “the spirit of the staircase.”

Waldeinsamkeit: (German) The feeling of being alone in the woods.

Meraki: (Greek) Doing something with soul, creativity, or love.

Forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.

Gheegle: (Filipino) The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute.

Pochemuchka: (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions.

Pena ajena: (Mexican Spanish) The embarrassment you feel watching someone else’s humiliation.

Cualacino: (Italian) The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

Ilunga: (Tshiluba, Congo) A person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.

Luciole

"...you will be sent to the special circle of hell. The one reserved for child molesters and people who talk in the theatre."

Happiness is:
+ running when it's sunny out
+ making pasta sauce
+ being called a ladybug
+ breakfast cereals
+ when you laugh at everything I do
+ my dynamic-duo future modelling career with alisa
+ how mr. macmillan is in a terminally good mood
+ do you see this shiny, laughing, supportive, stable (sometimes), smiling person?
+ i hope you do. i can't see me, even though you always try to make me.
+ and i hope you know why i am this way

I'd walk through hell for you, let it burn right through my shoes
These soles are useless without you.


RIP Peachy. <3

Un llama, une embrasse

And I was made for sunny days, and I was made for you.

And you, and nothing but you, miles and piles of you.

When I'm walking, when I'm thinking, when I'm talking, when people are talking, I get all chokey-scared. I hate this feeling. Nothing is worse than this feeling. It's the standing-up-on-stage with laryngitis and no memory of ever learning your lines feeling. It's the head-pounding, faint feeling after you slam your thumb in a locker. It's the falling, falling feeling you get when you're standing on a bridge, far too high up to be safe, with monkeys picking at your cuticles.
That place is giving me nightmares. The happiness and freedom and life that seems to emanate, like a stench, from its ugly, boring, plain buildings. That I am too late for. I don't know if I'm enough. How do I know that I'm enough if nobody tells me? How do I know that I'm enough when nobody looks me in the eye? 
I'm not a trap. I'm not unforgiving. I'm not insensitive. I try not to be selfish.
I'm just cold, and willing to put my heart on my sleeve and leave it dangling for anyone to rip off.


I shouldn't say anything else.
Not a fortune-teller. I just believe in faith. And you. And me.

Plus que toi, plus que ca

no less, no more
but o,
so much more
more than you will
ever
carry?
(you carry me, you carry my heart, in your truth)
no hidden
meaning
no trump card
just me, i am here,
o, so much more
than
this

My skin won't be quenched. My hands can't be warm (except if I'm with you). This road willn't end, I keep on running, and running, and running,
And I am waiting for the last float, but it's not coming. I don't think it ever will.
The fireworks, the parade, they just keep on coming. I love fireworks.
(It's easy, repeat after me. Now you. No, you. No, you.)

Trop jeune, trop emotionnel

And it was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for.
(They said we were far too young).

Revisiting scripts, the words I wrote, the promises I broke, the lines I crossed, the chords I scrabbled with, the bruises I hid away, from you, from me, from the world. It hurts me. It hurt(ed) you. There is nothing I want to do more than to take everything back, shove it into a hole and bury, bury, bury...until the sun was purple and nothing you could say could make me remember, not you say, those things, not that, I'm complaining. It's not that. It's in my heart. And you don't understand, maybe, that nothing can bring me there again, to where I hurt(ed) you. Where the universe was taking a nap. Naps are nice. Naps on you. Like a cat. Like a lion. Pet me, purr. Bless, the, dawn, someone, reach, out, branches.
Touching me, with your branches, in a nest, on that branch, where you branch(ed).
When you...when I...why didn't it...why did I...
Well, I'll wait now.
Heart on my sleeve.

And it was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for.

(They said we were far too young).

Depuis mon retour au monde

I need to get out- I want to go somewhere. Go somewhere far, far away.
I want to go on a trip. To somewhere full of lights, and maybe full of ocean. I don't need sand, or palm trees, or sweltering sun. I like a good cloudy day more than you'd think. I want to lie somewhere, maybe in a field, maybe in a forest, maybe on a teaspoon. Listening to branches hit trees. Listening to waves, jostling the sea turtles around. Listening to bubble wrap burst. Close your eyes and don't breathe. Far under the water, everything is silent except the buzzing of the stinging of your eyes to the salt. Kisses are salty. Lungs are straining. You can't reach the ground.
And if you needed to reach me, I can't be reached. You, and you, and you, you, and you are already there with me. I don't think anyone else really needs to see, we can't be seen, we can do appalling things....
Double letters are my downfall. Toboggan, committee, appalling...
If you can count to four, say 'sunflower' and meet me there.

Muette

And how could I
Stand here by you
And not be moved by you?

Un retour au passe

...Don't walk in front, I may not follow. Don't walk behind, I may not lead.
If you stay right with me and we'll get there.
I promise...

And now, we're here again. I'll probably lose my thumb nail, and my mind, and I'm going to be so, so sore for a long, long time. But the fact of the matter is, this here, is what I need, where I flourish, where I stand the straightest. And your hands are so warm. I don't know what happened to those flowers. Walk with me, for awhile.

Mes pensees

Une developpement interressante

Captivating, irrational, absurd, quizzical, subtle, laughable, genuine, indeterminate, finessed, sarcophagus.

I like how the human mind jumps. I like how it literally bounds from one word, one sentence, one fragment, to another that has no correlation whatsoever. I like that. I don't like that it is Wednesday already. Because that means that we are running out of freedom, and my goodness do I love freedom when the sun is shining so brightly outside and my knee is letting me run, run, run. 
Feelings are odd things. Mine are funny shaped, but they fit into those slots that yours leave, like enzymes and the things that enzymes go into, do you remember the word? I don't. I also don't know anything about Oedipus Rex. I also am pretty much done with him, I think. It's almost April. Do you know how much I like April? Do you? I'm not sure you do. April sounds hopeful to me. April means spring time, to all those who don't live in Calgary. April sounds like a laughing baby...red panda. 


I got it from my mother. 
Never again.


I'd like a tropical vacation. I keep picturing the squashed avocados on our morning runs.
I'd like to sing, forever.
I know that I'll belong. But you do too. Come along.

I'm going to put on my grad dress again.