you looked gorgeous on sunday

I really enjoyed being with you but it was disappointing how you reacted to my thoughts and feelings.

I wanted to take a step back, leave us wanting more, show that we can exist in a state of balance. But I realize now that is unattainable.

You proved tonight that we can never be together and that is unfortunate. I will think of you and smile inside.

Be well, my dearest.



I don't test you. I respect you more than that. You didn't express any thoughts or feelings. You simply said you could not.

I'm not a mind reader. All I wanted was to spend as much time with you as possible. I feel a connection with you. And sometimes, you only get so much time together.

I do understand why you did what you did. But again, I'm not a mind reader. And you have pushed me away several times already. I can only go by actions if the words are not there.

Too much control has a way of backfiring. Perhaps if you just let go or open up once in awhile, you wouldn't find yourself so disappointed. I think we are lovely together.

Goodnight, baby.



What I desired was a simple exchange of thought and dialog. A means to rebuild after what turned so ugly so quickly before. Last night was perfect up until the point you gave into your rage. I adore you, but this does not work for me. I'm sorry.



I'm sorry too. I wish you could have asked me how I felt, like how I asked you if we could see an earlier movie for us to spend more time together. But you seemed to have already decided. Tests are for someone looking for a reason to decide you're wrong for them. It's a reason to leave. You didn't give me a chance.



It wasn't a test. As we walked down the hill it felt great. I wanted to leave you wanting more, to eradicate the prior, to wake today and want to call you.

The right thing to do would have been to tell me that I suck, respect my wishes, kiss me on the cheek, and drive off with a smile and a wave. Instead, you lose your shit. Again, that doesn't work with me.



I wanted the same thing. I wanted to return home so we could talk about it quietly. To let you know that I understand. And that I wanted to take things slow.

When I asked you if it because you didn't want to feel guilty, you said no. That was it. I just want you to know how much is left unsaid. And that was all I wanted to say if we had returned home.

This isn't meant to change your mind. It is you. But please don't put this all on me. Put yourself to the test.

My only expectation was to spend time with you, which I told you in advance and scheduled accordingly. Yours was impromptu and had many loaded reasons behind it. It is unfortunate I have feelings.



You're making excuses. There were no games, no tests, no loaded reasons. My intent was pure. I gave it another chance, it didn't work. We learn. We live.



It wasn't an excuse. I acknowledged what you were trying to do. Which is more than what I feel like you have done for me. To say WE learn is quite a stretch. Whether you want to accept it or not, you've made mistakes. Goodbye baby, I sincerely hope you are a happy.



As I do you.

what is this place?

It was Sunday. We had been fighting for days. And by now, I couldn't even remember why. We made plans to see a movie, but it seemed much bigger than that. So much time had passed since the last time I saw you.

I was late. And you looked handsome. We made out in the elevator. And you fed me popcorn. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but the timing was off. Instead, when the lights dimmed, I rested my head on your shoulder and remembered the words you told to me that first night, "we fit."

The movie ended. You asked, "What should we do now?"

I reached my arms around your waist and snuck my hands underneath your windbreaker. As we stood in the cold, empty parking lot, next to the elevator, it felt right just to touch you.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yeah… I could eat."


We sat in a diner up the street from your apartment. Some place called Top's. I watched you eat a sandwich, while I picked at your leftovers. When the song came on, you snapped your fingers and sang along. Your face came alive, and you looked different. Like a young boy.

"Give me your hand," I said.

"Why?"

"I'm going to read your palm."

My tiny fingers traced the outline of your perfectly squared off thumb, then I held out my phone and took a picture. We were getting to know each other, and I smiled.


"You resent conformity."

"That's right."


"You are too cautious at times."

"Most people would call me too reckless."


"You have activities, perhaps unhealthy, which you use to escape from reality from time to time."

"Hm."


"You are in, or in the near future will be in, a lasting solid relationship."

That night, we left Top's, and you held my hand as we walked down the hill back to your apartment. It was ours now. The sun had gone down, and the city was buzzing all around. That night, I wanted to tell you everything...

love letter

I believed in the purest form of love there was. Something which only existed in movies. Others read what I wrote and felt uplifted. They called it beautiful. But it was just my life. I believed it. All of it. And it made me better. I wrote better. I worked better. I felt strong. All the things that love was supposed to do for you.

And then you told me it wasn't love…

Love is just a package to be sold and purchased. We feel things and we think it's love. But maybe it was just a good salesman.

Thank you for helping me to find my voice. For letting me create this world for us to exist. It wasn't real. But I was happy. Although I no longer believe in love, I believe in myself. And that's all I need to keep going.

land

Something you should know… you looked gorgeous on Sunday.

Thank you.

Most welcome. How are you?

I'm in LA.

It's nice. Was thinking of moving here. How are you?

I'm cold in SF. I think about moving to LA every day.

You should. You should do what makes you happy.

Happiness is all around us.

What does that mean?

I can find happiness in SF.

What else do you think about?

Sometimes you.

How was your day? Tell me.

Another one full of running around. Some was fruitful, some was futile. And yours, what of?

Flying home tomorrow.

Flying to LA tomorrow. Is this symbolic of us?

It doesn't have to be.

I really wish Sunday didn't turn sour.

Bad days happen.

Better ones await?

Is that what you want?

Always.

Tell me what you want.

To love. And be loved.

That's what I want too.

So simple.

Will you kiss me now?

I never stopped.

first date

We sat on his couch. It was dark except for the moonlight. I straddled his lap as I ran my hand across my thigh to show him the rip in my stocking.

"See?"

He smiled.

"What brought you here?" I asked.

"A blonde girl from New Jersey."

He told me he was married.

"What happened?"

"We grew apart."

"Still… it must have been nice to be so in love," I said.

"Yeah… " he replied. "Have you ever been in love?"

"I don't think so."

Then he told me, "You have to want it."

That night, I fell asleep in his arms. I wish I knew then that he didn't want it. But when I close my eyes, everything is still perfect.

the collector

His place was like a museum. There was so much art everywhere. I went upstairs to use the bathroom. More art wrapped up in paper. "Careful not to touch anything," I told myself. Then I tripped on a vacuum cleaner... damn.

I was his object.

In the morning, I woke up next to him; it felt nice to be close. I noticed he put up a new painting. Pretty. I watched him get ready to take a shower; a cue for me to get dressed.

On my way out, he asked me, "How's your life?" to which I responded by looking away. He asked me again, "How's your life?"

"It's fine," I said.

Except it wasn't fine.

"I read your Facebook. The one about the girl in the New York Times. It was funny."

I couldn't remember what he was talking about. He was reading up on me. But I was right here.

"Are those shoes new?"

I wore them on our first date.

"Did you cut your hair?"

Like a month ago.

Collectors are like that. They don't have to interact with their beloved objects all the time. It's just... there. And every now and then they take an interest, but otherwise, there's no upkeep. His life was like a museum. Well curated. But poorly kept.

how's your life?

I sat on a friend's patio in Lake Tahoe exchanging love letters with someone who was very far away.

Don't fade away from me, okay? I wrote. Except it wasn't really a question. It felt more like I was talking to myself.

I get so anxious these days. My back hurts. And every morning I have to crack my right elbow just to feel some kind of relief.

In Tahoe, I would wake up before everyone else, drink a glass of water, read every article about Rupert Murdoch, and stare at the lake.

I like having you around... it's nice to have someone to share my thoughts with. Talking to myself again.

It's kind of funny how close you feel to someone who's so far away. I wasn't sure what he was doing in Europe. To be honest, I didn't ask.

That night, I got a text back.

I am in Spain where English news abounds. The downfall of Murdoch has been wonderful to watch as he has been the proverbial boogeyman who has haunted since my childhood.

As for the rest, we are both restless. There is a language we share that few others recognize. I would be lying if I said I didn't think of you fondly, and often. The like functionality of being around is a door that swings both ways.

Your thoughts are embraced wherever I exist.

The air was nice; I slept outside. The lake is beautiful at night. They say thinking about the future can be so pleasurable that sometimes we'd rather think about it than get there. I was afraid. I was afraid that next time would not be as perfect as this.

I knew when I'd see him, he'd ask me, "How's your life?" This time I wouldn't have an answer. What happens when "How's your life?" no longer becomes relevant.

city of 7's

"If San Francisco is a city of 7's. Portland is like a city of 3's."

"Well… what am I?"

"You're kind of in your own world. You've got kind of a fucked up aesthetic. And you've got kind of a fucked up way of talking."

That was the first time I'd ever heard myself described so succinctly. For the rest of the night I kept thinking, I just want him to show me things. I just want him to show me everything...

But the timing was off.

For weeks and months we would try to get together. I think about all the questions I wanted to ask him. The advice I wanted him to give me. But when the time came it was either too late, or not appropriate, or the movie was starting, or I'd honestly just forgotten.

I wanted to look nice for him. Something would always go wrong there too. I remember putting on my favorite dress. It was cold so I decided to grab stockings. These look nice, I thought. When I put them on they were ripped. Totally ripped.

He started to fade away. I could feel it. They say it's better to burn out than to fade away. I wanted reassurance. I wanted him to say, "Baby, I'll be gone for awhile. Don't worry. I'm still here. Wait for me."

I guess... just because you "get" someone. Doesn't mean you know what to do with them.