Excuse*

excuse*

~T.R.

They are a little breathless as they speak.

“Please, don't leave like this.”

Rage simmers in a pot of tears in my lungs.

“Stop!” I mean it to come out commanding but instead, my voice cracks and it comes out a rasp.

They've paused a few feet away from me.

“Stop. okay? Just...do me a favour. Pretend like this never happened. Not tonight, not last night or the night before. You’ll go home and keep living your life the way you did before you came here. And I’ll go home too.” I swallow hard.

“I’ll go home and live my life the way I did before I came here.” I try and fight tears to speak clearly.

“A-and we’ll both keep living as though we never met someone in a kitchen in Paris and--” I'm falling apart at the seams.

“You know we can't do that,” Jun rasps and takes a few small steps forward.

“We both know that can’t happen. I-I can’t go home and forget. Adam--”

“Stop,” I angrily wipe my eyes.

“You don't get to say that.” the tears are spilling out all over again. It seems like I never run out of them.

“You don't get to tell me that you can’t help me and that I have to go back home to them and then that you can’t forget me, you-you-- JUST CAN’T!” I'm sobbing now.

Another few small steps forward as they speak their voice softens a little.

“I never said I couldn't help you, Adam. I just can't help all of them. I can’t. It's not possible, you have to try and understand that. And--and try and understand that I don't know any one of them. But--Adam I know you. And God damn me for saying this but I’d choose you. I’d choose you over all of them. Those hundred men. Overall those women and their political titles. I’d choose you over all of them.”

This only makes me cry harder and yet Jun continues until they're there in front of me, hand brushing the tears away.

“Let me help you.”

Leaving France ~ Excerpt From A Woman’s World

I'm not jealous that you might like them more than me...I'm jealous about the fact that they might make you happier than I can

When you notice the dozens of likes, just know that 1. Yes I have been at this a while, 2. It is your fault for writing so captivatingly, 3. I adore every thing you have written and will continue to bombard you with likes. Have a great day.

I--i'm crying? Not even joking im in the cafeteria trying to discretely dab at tears. Thank you. Holy crap. This means so much to me...honestly. Its nice to have people like my pieces but to have someone take the time to tell me or have the dedication or enjoy my work enough to come back consitantly, it means the world. Thank you. So so so much. Wow for a writer im not being very eloquent. Thank you. 💞

As I watch you leave and in turn, hold my breath as the possibility of something beautiful fades away, I become sure this is what I am truely greiving. Not the loss of this temporary happiness but the more permanent hope it held. And I think, yes, I will miss you but I will also miss the me I could have been with you if you had just waited. Let the tears crystallize and let the lip stick stains set. And I wonder if one day you too will look back on us and your heart will shudder in recognition of everything we could have become. In reverence and longing for all things lovely life might have spun itself into for us. Perhaps, someday, you will look back on everything we were and know what I know now: that we could have been something beautiful if you had just held on a little longer.

~Excuses for missing you~ T.R.

Where Does Poetry Come From

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And this. This is where it comes from. From questions like this. Feel the words turn to ink in your mouth. Coat your tongue and drip onto notebook paper. Watch the ink turn into black hole droplets, and poetry my love, comes from the universes encapsulated in that darkness.

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And then you smile. And that. That is where it comes from. It is birthed from the way the sun reflects off your teeth and eyes onto lined paper perfectly. The shadowed letters begging to be penned. Claiming they are here from the heavens and it is impossible to think otherwise.

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And that is where it comes from. From the way every word spoken by your voice possesses a lyric like quality. A melody that sings me to sleep and wakes me gently to the sunrise. A song I cannot quite remember the words to and so I try to recall them with pen and paper and the quiet background track of your laughter set on repeat to keep me company, and jog my memory.