Up & Down

 Nothing for September. Nothing for you. It stung. It stings and stings and stings. It just keeps coming. It hits me when I think I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I wish I didn't know you, but that isn't even the truth. Because you taught me so much. I learned so much just being around you. And it stings and stings and stings. Knowing you was pain all the time. All the time, it stings. And stings. And stings. I grew. I grew up and it hurt. It stung. Over and over again. I see your face and it hurts. Your eyes aren't open and I smile. It seems like a lifetime ago. It is. It truly is. A lot of space and time and lies ago. Lies that I was okay with how you treated me. I was pathetic and it hurts. It hurts to know that I haven't changed. Not one damn bit. I grab the point and drive it right into my veins. I let my beating break me from the inside out. It's the pain of your face. It stings and stings and stings. 

I find a smile. I think, maybe I can find my happy ending... I feel your eyes on me and I think... I think and it makes me smile. To know that you were looking at me. Why were you watching me? I was just writing. I don't feel I was being particularly fascinating. Maybe... maybe, I just thought you were watching me. I dare to look up to find out. You were turning away while I made a long decent up, to see if you were probing me. You looked through the shield and hit your face. I lingered. Watching your reflection. Watching you; I know that you just hit your face on the glass. I smile. I let it settle. It lives there now, on my face. Just thinking that maybe.... just maybe... just maybe... things don't have to sting. Maybe... just maybe... they can... just turn out okay. 

I walk the halls. I see a glimpse of you. Then I think about how you look. How you might feel. How slipping my hand around your hip bone, how just sliding my hand up your shirt... how that might feel. Your skin against my fingertips, my palm, how I would want to slip my arms under yours. I want to be engulfed by your arms. I can't help but think of how your arms are thin, but strong. How it would feel to let your warmth reach me. To smell your chest, your soap, your detergent, your deodorant, your scent that lingers alongside it all. How I would smack my own face on glass. The reality of knowing I won't ever know, will I? You are going to leave. I know it and it stings. Yeah, but I don't have anyone or any kids to tie me here. My smile fades. I don't know what else to say. So I tell the truth. I would be sad to see you go, but I've never been one to hold anyone back from what they want to do. Is it what you want to do? Do you want to... go? It stings and stings and stings. 

I leaned in and saw your book open. You look about in the middle of the story. The one you told me about. The one you talked about while you fucked up. You fucked it up because you were distracted. I smile at the thought of it. I don't want you to have to redo your work. You don't seem to care. You don't seem to care to have to redo it, but you admit that you know you fucked up because you were distracted. I only heard part of it. I want it to be true, so it is... to me. I want to think I distracted you. I want to think that you are perpetually wondering when I'll walk up and ask you something miniscule. Just because. Just because you want to to smack your face on the glass. I want you to finish it. Because I want to push you. Read and read and read. Talk to me forever about the words you see. How did you feel reading it all? What stuck out to you? Read that book so you read the one about taking a leap of faith. Read the book about hidden feelings and obvious sparks. Read the book that made me yearn to tell you how I feel. Feel it with me. Indulge me. I remark the page you are on. I only notice slightly afterwards that I have stumbled upon something vulnerable. I glance up at you and you aren't looking and I blush. I blush when I realize. I keep mementos. Not always. But, sometimes, when they are the right shape, I slide them into pages. I beg it to hold the space that I cannot. The thin lines that separate the story from what I know and what I hope to discover. And there. There I see my name. I didn't recognize it at first. It wasn't my handwriting. It wasn't anyone's. Not anyone's I know. But, I do. I do because I have one too. I have one with my name on it. With the 'y' that curls at the end. Not like my handwriting. Not at all. But, I know where it's from. From when I first decided to just go ahead. Go ahead and show people you like them. Don't be afraid. Be polite, even. So I did. I took a leap. My heart jumped when I wrote your name on the paper. I think I had a dozen names. But, I put yours on the list. Not first. Not last. Somewhere in the middle. So no one would know that I feel the way I do. Just hoping that you might feel it. Right through the paper. You saved it. Just something sweet to brighten your day...

I mention it. I almost walk past. You say you have another page marker. I say, It's better than the one with my name on it. You agree. I leave and it doesn't stop me from smiling. Why use mine then? Why use that card? The one you got from me? Why use it if you have another marker? I can't help it. I can't help but think that you feel the same way about me. At the very least, you find me charming enough to be my friend. I can't help but like that. I can't help myself and I don't know what to do. 

I walk. I walk and I burst. I burst at the seams. I can't take anything anymore. I tried. I really tried. I can't hold it in anymore. I burst open and it's just. All out there. it's open and raw and I'm just... My face hurts. My face is rashy. Maybe because of my mascara streaming. Maybe because I am allergic to my own feelings. To my own healing. I don't want to do it, but it's inevitable. I don't have time to be sad. Not anymore. Like I ever was able to be. I let it all come out. At some point... I calm down. I feel you. I don't know how I do. I don't see anyone. But, maybe I never did. I'll never know. But, in the end, I clear away all the wetness and I pull in and it's the open spaces. There's only a few. But they are all next to you. I don't know what to do about it, but just to accept it. I pull in. I had told myself I would write you a note if you ever pulled up next to me. This doesn't count. It can't count. I can't take any rejection today. Not right now. No. I just want to keep thinking that I'm distracting you. That you smack your face on the glass for me. Because, if you aren't... I just.... It'll sting and I am already stung. I shouldn't be. But, I am. I just keep wanting to ask you. Just come with me. I have my reasons. I want to explain. I feel like when I do... You'll just... you'll get it and you'll want to. You'll say okay. It'll be weird and I'll scream internally. Whether you say yes or say no. Because, it'll just sting either way. Maybe I should. Maybe I should just push it. Push it and see. See where I stand. let the band aid be ripped off. Let my feelings be where they are. Let them smack me in the face. Good or bad. Maybe you'll smile. Maybe I'll smile. Maybe I'll just face reality.

I can't become the stories I read. Nor the ones I write. I want to. I want it to be true. I want to think that you can't wait to see me, too. That you get stuck on me like I get stuck on you. That when I look at you, you feel what I do. Like time doesn't exist. That there is a pause, where we both forget we are here. Because there is something there. There is something in that space. The inexplicable. Time and space doesn't exist at the same time that it does. I flick my eyes back and forth. Between the flecks in your eyes and the freckles below. The ones above your mask. Under your glasses. The freckles that I want to look at. The ones I want to feel under my fingertips. Under my lips. But, I don't. I just flicker back up to your eyes. The ones that are searching me, just so. I wait and we say nothing. We can't say anything. Sometimes it just feels like we say the same thing. Just to talk. I sometimes feel like I can't look away, and at the same time, I must or else... Or else it's clear how I feel. The look that you give me, it sends me into a wave. I get giddy. I just flicker to your freckles and look away. It's a safe zone. The space under your eye, on your cheek. The one that I just want to look at. The color of your skin against the browns. The golds. The light that reflects in your eyes and makes me melt. The way that your skin shows at your ankle. When you rest your feet on the back part of the bar. I just want to run my finger along that space. I want to feel it. It's black jeans and black old worn shoes that you tie tight, like you've actually been skating around all this time. I want to just stare at it. I don't even want to kick your feet anymore. I just. I just want to know it. I want to know that space that lives on you. All of it. Every inch of it. I want to feel the lock of your hair, the part that is golden. Just in the right light. The ones I see you in, sometimes. I hear your deep voice across the room and I stop. And I just want to know you. And it stings. It stings and stings and stings. You disconnect and walk away. You don't want to see what is here. You just. You have to go. So you will And it stings and stings and stings. I glance into an empty seat. It makes my heart race. Thinking you aren't there.