For J

For J

I'm not asking you to love

To be honest I don't know if I could return the feeling 

But if I could ask something of you 

I would ask that you pine after me

That you think about me when you look out over the rolling hills as you drive to work

Or that you can still feel my kisses long after I have left you 

The way I giggled when your nose touched my neck for the first time

That you swear my perfume is still on your clothes no matter how many times they go through the wash

I want you to sit alone and overhear a conversation and remember something that I said and then you laugh to yourself but get embarrassed because the people who see are judging you and really try to transport me there with you 

That sometimes you can feel the ghost of my hand against your palm. 

Then it grows and covers the rest of your skin, like an itch that's odd yet comforting 

You rub your fingers together, wondering if you're going crazy 

And as your day goes by, you notice sexual innuendos in everything, like who many times can a person hears the words " climax" and " erupt" and natural grunts and sighs in an English class and not think about them coming out of my mouth and how good it feels that you're the reason why 

That you sit in your car and think about the excitement and fear and warmth and shivers that wouldn't stop expelling from your body as we dove on the highway and you prayed that I wouldn't notice 

That you pass by people and places and think that you see me or that you can magic me coming around the corner into your arms but you are not that lucky 

That you get jealous whenever you just see a Hispanic woman with another man 

That your fist clenched with bitterness and unshed tears because why can't you have that 

That you think about getting in your car and driving 3 and a half hours to come to my town and you will find me and spend every moment after in my dorm on my twin bed

Singing hymns and love songs into each other's skin

But then you realize that's way out of line and just end up wondering what color my comforter is 

Then you start to look at my Instagram a lot 

An unsettling amount and feel gross doing it but…

There's only like three photos and they're old 

You hope that I'll post anything just to be sure I'm not a figment of your imagination

That you can see me and hear me and feel me

You find my Facebook that hasn't been touched in months 

Other posts with me in them from other peoples accounts from long before you knew me

You wish we'd known each other forever

And sometimes 

In those really early hours of the morning when you can't sleep and feel like the only person in the world 

You dream while you're awake, you let your mind go far

More than you would ever tell anyone 

Things that you would never dare tell anyone, not even me 

But ohhhhh 

You wish you could 

The next spring and summer and autumn and winter all lay at your feet like a Tralfamadorian novel

" No beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love are the depths of the many marvelous moments seen all at once."

It's all as clear as it ever could be 

Laughter, pillow talk, fights, forgiveness, drives, farmers markets, late nights, dive bars, kickbacks, no contact, all day conversations, lust, apocalypses, new days, never-ending light.

Meeting my mother and hoping she’ll like you but I already know it will go bad but you're here to stay and she warms up to you soon 

Ifs, whats, yeses, nos, maybes, thens, nevers, always.

All more and more petrifying yet alluring 

I'm not asking you to love me 

I'm too afraid that it'd scare you off

But I want at least one of these to go through your mind

Because they seem to never leave mine.

Tales from fiction writing class

Write a scene where the characters are talking about an issue without actually stating it.  

We stood outside the bar, my mother and I. It was starting to rain, but she was smoking, so we couldn't go inside yet. I was slowly becoming miserable. 

"Can I go inside?"

"Gimme a minute. I'm almost done."

I didn't speak and she took another drag.

"How'd you start smoking anyway?"

"Your grandma."

Silence and a drag followed.

"Are you done yet?"

"Just wait… Jesus," she answered, angrily.

Silence. Drag.

"I really don't like this… you know," I said.

"What? Me smoking?"

"No."

The rain was still lightning falling. It reminded me of the end of a garden hose. How even when you stand under it, you never feel wet.

My mother finally spoke."Well, I do."

"I can't see why."

She took a last drag and threw the cigarette down without fully putting it out first. "You're too young to understand."

"Or maybe you didn't teach me well enough to understand."

Silence. No drag. "If you don't like it, then don't come next time."

I felt like crying. "If you're unhappy, I understand. But you can stop and do the right thing. We can do something and try to fix it. It's like when you remodeled the kitchen. You…".

She cut me off then. "The problem isn't in the kitchen, it lies in the foundation. Once the foundation's cracked, there isn't much you can do."

I wish I hadn't brought the topic up. "I don't think the foundation is cracked. I love our house. I want to save it."

Before she could say anything, the door to the bar opened. The bartender walked outside and came towards us. "My shift's over. Imma head out."

My mom turned towards him, happily saying, "Are you sure you can't stay?"

I turned away from them. I heard him say, "Yeah, but I'll see you around."

The joy in her voice died. "Around?"

"Yeah. So… bye."

They were quiet for a moment. 

He got into his car and turned on the engine. The radio started blasting some profane rap song. Once he was gone, we looked back at each other and I decided that it was time to head home. I walked to the passenger door of our car. My mother didn't say anything and walked slowly to the driver's door.

We started on the fifteen-minute drive back home still in complete silence. I decided to finally speak. "You know, even if the foundation of our home is cracked, you can't move into one of the fake room sets at IKEA."

She didn't say anything. Perhaps I had gotten to her. We pulled into the driveway and saw that my dad was already here.

A Garbage Story That I Had To Write In Under 100 Words And 10 Minutes Or Ghost Boy

There once was a boy who saw ghosts. So, one day, his mom toke him to see a psychic. 

As the psychic read his palms, she began to scream. “ He has the gift. The gift.” The boy became scared and they left.

Eventually, the boy grew into a man and became a regular guest star on Dr.Oz and The Maury Show that gave readings to the audience. He got married at 45, then divorced at 63, then remarried at 65. This marriage stuck until he died at 89. But no one could see his ghost.  

That scene where Bolin rips off his sleeves hits different

What are three things you’ve learnt about love?

1. Love is abundant and comes in many forms: No matter how many times I’ve lost love, I’ve been able to find it again. There is no ‘one true love’ we are ever-changing and as such, so is the type of love we seek. My vision of true love has shifted from what it was 3 years ago, but it doesn’t make the love I’ve found at that time invalid, it just makes it different.

2. It’d be a crime to restrict myself to romantic love: Finding love in myself, my family, friends, career, passions, my community, and my people has made me into more of a well rounded individual.

3. Love isn’t supposed to hurt: Heartbreak is an unfortunate risk factor when loving and being vulnerable and I’ve personally found ways to embrace that. However, hurting while in a relationship is not normal and shouldn’t be thought of as a consequence. Love is warm, comforting, happy, and fun. There’s this idea that real love hurts, that the initial amazing feelings are just a honeymoon phase but I completely reject that. You should never have to withstand great pain in love. This isn’t in regards to conflict or overcoming obstacles as a couple, it’s about being severely hurt by your partner. That is not just an obstacle.

Oh, my darling. I know you are not a Cathedral, but you’re no less holy.

- Unused bits from a never-finished book