Recovery And Frank Sinatra

recovery and frank sinatra

snow on telephone wires and fifteen years of weathering this winter. i cannot believe i have made it to this day, a future in advance, waiting to see which way this life unfolds. 
an old phonograph scratches at the record’s ends, static over roof tops, sound waves breaking through crescents of white. a wave through foam and bursting colours. 
i keep asking the same questions over and over and i guess that’s what keeps me living, trying to find the answer. is that what Jean meant when he said, who am i? without and within. music, piano fading so i flip the record. 
frank sinatra and i have learned a lot together. we know what happens when you fall in love, when you fall out, in between. we go together, him and i 
through these telephones and microphones and static, empty nights. 
outside it’s cold, enough that the table shakes with it even, the house trembling in the wind. we are fragile but somehow still standing if that is a miracle. 
someone left the door open and now everything’s come in. i don’t try to stop it anymore and they sit quiet, listen to the record play while the snow falls. in this way we have learned to wear the days together and now fifteen years later i am still standing, frank sinatra in my hand, before i sit and listen until i fall asleep.

and he told me that i was Apollo 13 on the very last day-

of the year where we cried over things that we meant to go wrong or go right, little lives that we played from paris to l.a. on an eastward bound plane or the train that you took across empty lands with open hands and a dream that we could be more than we are, our broken-down scarred beating hearts, bursting lungs and minds full up of hope and the stars we see in our arms, magic and mystery and innocent mischief; a rocket taking off in our eyes, a year bending into place like a piece of a puzzle you can’t quite see has escaped, something you didn’t know you were missing until you felt the edges line up, all systems go three two one pushing off of the ground to fly up away like he always said you could do he told me i was his only dream and the stars he had looked for he found in my heart with the love of a daughter a child of his own and he kissed me goodbye, set me off on my own through the dark into space, helmet clasped around my face like the mission he loved galaxies up above said shoot for the stars don’t forget who you are and when the clock strikes twelve tonight you’ll come home and it’ll be alright set down on the face of the moon, know you’re where you belong and the world turns anew in a year without you

he told me that i was Apollo 13 and that if i believed what i dreamed- right before he left i said i know who i am and that it was because of you; you taught me what i know (i know) and everywhere i roam, i’ll see you on the road

THE VERY LAST DAY :: o.m.

2016

at my kitchen sink

on the phone with my mother & i’m trying to okay my voice, stop the shaking & the terrible sound it makes when i breathe in- i know it’s going to happen so I’m trying not to speak, answer her questions in a yes & no, short enough that she can’t hear how i crack on every breath in, stutter on every breath out. she asks what i’m doing while i’m on the phone with her & i tell her nothing, i’m just washing the dishes, making dinner, doing anything else because she wants to know what that noise is in the background. i don’t tell her it’s the sound of me breaking. we were worried about you, she always says, what her automatic response is to an answer of fine, nothing, i’m alright. you keep leaving & leaving & leaving & we were trying to find you but we couldn’t & she says it like it’s so simple, like my leaving is me going to a real place. i want to explain to her but i don’t want to worry her even more so i just keep quieting my voice whisper softer each time she says yes or why or help. i don’t say anything at all when she repeats, we were worried when you left & i think, then maybe you should stop trying to find me.

chain of gold

love her for it, and in spite of it; for this she will love you. and of this, nameless in its entirety, something good will grow. do not doubt this. do not forget this. for anything, for everything, for this: love her love her love her.

COUSINS IN THE SUMMER

red lipstick & chlorine. a flower headband. eight dollars on the dresser with bobby pins crossed for luck. bathing suits & the smell of sunscreen, an almost rainstorm walking home. the sound before the thunder comes crashing in, that empty silence. & then: the rain.

i hate that you tell me your diagnosis before your name

like you have to prove you’re not insane or looking for attention.

i hate whoever made you feel like you had to say sorry for everything you did.

i hate that every other word is sorry sorry sorry like you weren’t good enough.

who told you that you weren’t pretty?

who told you that you had to be pretty, that this was what mattered?

i hate that i can tell exactly who you used to be because of the way you say sorry, like it’s not an apology but an excuse for your existence.

i hate that someone called you Cassidy without asking and you were afraid to correct them.

what made you so afraid?

who made it so hard for you to be yourself without worrying what people would think of you?

i hate that you say sorry to me.

i hate that you think you have to say sorry to me when you have done nothing wrong.

why would anyone ever tell you that you are worthless?

why don’t you stop saying sorry?

i hate that i can’t understand why you do this.

i hate the semi-colon tattoo on your finger because, don’t me wrong, i love you for staying strong. i am so unbelievable proud of you and i cannot even begin to imagine what it took for you to be here- i hate that you had to go through hell just to say you’re not joking.

why would anyone ever doubt someone else’s choice when it has nothing to do with them?

what kind of person makes a joke about the option “choose not to answer”?

i hate the way people assume.

i hate the fact that I am still writing these words long after you said sorry to me in the art room because every day I see someone saying sorry about something they shouldn’t be, and not enough saying

“why don’t you change?”