and on this day

5 minutes ago i was standing over slow-cooking steaks and fried potatoes and veggies (all cooking) – smiling.
then i became slightly depressed thinking about the one guy i’d walk through hell with without a concern.

and those of you who know me – and those who’ve been keeping up know that i’ve spent the last 8 months or so developing emotions. this depression thing being something new.

on this day we should be full of hope & optimism.
full of whatever it is we love most. perhaps love. who really knows.

we write poetry – hit the day spas & ruth’s chris’s of the city and do it big in our stacy adams and heels. (people still wear stacy adams?)

but see – me line brother lost his girl a few months back.
and without warning or my permission i think i’ll think about that every valentines day & every birthday she would have had & every birthday he has. she was a friend and that’s some shit you never forget.

so he writes: “I wish i could build a ladder tall enough to come see you. I miss you.”

and if i could i’d help him build that latter.
in the meantime, though, i’ll call him and see how he’s doing.

and on this day – let’s love everybody.
tomorrow, we can go back to the hatred.

—–

and here’s something old for you to fall in love to:

i’ve thought about dropping my bed off at the dumpster and stopping by the consignment shop and picking up the twin size mattress and sitting it on cinder blocks and wooden slats so i could sleep tight this winter – breathing into her neck.

this autumn will not allow that to happen.

this autumn finds me sitting low in crimson, leather seats – eyes slightly above the steering wheel.
fingertips slightly gripping below.
the nights have never been so crisp.
the air has never tasted so welcoming.
it’s as though it showered before my arrival.

and she stands there blowing from her lungs what she grew up believing was smoke –
wanting to say to the girl closest to her “i can see my breath.”
but they aren’t friends.

the starbucks cup and p-coat reminds her that warmth did and does exist.
the sky’s attempt at darkness brings her memories of summer sit-downs on park benches and piers after hours of shopping for lip gloss – shoes and scarves for the coming winter.

the scarf around her neck reminds her of his impersonation of her muslim mother who wore scarves to the market because the owner would always comment on her beauty in scarves and give her the discount he saw fit.

she stood there alone.

my lungs inhaled what was left of the cologne sprayed on my white t.
my lungs exhaled the chorus of an old otis redding song:

‘i’ve got dreams to remember’

the cold is here.
she feels it.
i feel it.

i want to sit low beneath goose down comforters with her – eating plantain chips and chocolate chip bread pudding with coconut ice cream – listening to sade depress the shit out of both of us.

i want to frequent malls with her, visiting every store – vowing to never shop with her again – carrying all eight of her bags to the car when it’s over.

i want to fall in ‘like’ this autumn, pushing her down in a pile of leaves – then letter her catch me just to see what her revenge will be.

i want to fall in love this winter watching her read through the newest ‘vogue,’ and ‘elle’ while sitting on the counter – heat on 95 degrees, salads on plates, dressing on the side – and neither of us hungry because we’ve filled up kissing.

this autumn, though, finds me sitting low, in crimson, leather seats watching her waiting for him – not me.
and remembering what i hope is to one day be.

i unlock my door for the woman currently waiting on permit to occupy the right side of my queen.
i exhaled on an old sade joint:

‘when i lay eyes on you’

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s