HAEVEN

in some life we’re together.
in a cottage that’s completely overgrown with ivy.
tucked in the nook of a quiet residential area where trees arch over the roads so densely only a few strands of sunlight spill through.
and all of the doors are unlocked and all of the windows are open.
there’s nothing bad to keep out, to ward off, to drive away.
and the neighborhood kids ride their bikes outside and play hopscotch and eat ice lollies that turn their tongues bright pink and orange.
and there’s a beautiful, golden-fleece lab and no one knows who he belongs to,
but we’ve decided his name is Buster. obviously.
and Buster’s really friendly so i’m not afraid of dogs anymore.
[i’m not afraid of anything anymore.
here.
‘fear’ is a word i’ve never heard, and never spoken].
and the postman throws the paper at our big, red door [the color of the lipstick i’m always wearing].
and we hear it as it hits the wood – a soft thud.
[there is no bad news. everything here is slow and soft]
you’re on your third glass of OJ, because here time is nothing and your coffee does not turn cold.
and there’s French toast and maple syrup and we’re never full but never empty.
we’re never empty.
and somewhere in the back garden we’ve got that pale lilac tree that won’t stop blooming,
so all of our overgrown grass is laced with lilac too. and Melody Noir is playing on a loop we never get tired of, from a record player we can’t see and don’t question.
i sit on the sunbathed porch bricks and see how many blossoms I can shove into my wild hair, and you watch me.
and it’s enough. everything here is enough.
even though it seems too good to be true, here,
nothing is a lie and everything is exactly as it seems – as we wish it.

nobody really knows what heaven is,

but maybe it will be this.

I want it to be this.

we are all just strangers, crying in public.

there’s nothing like seeing a stranger, crying in public hysterically,
or fighting with their lover over the phone to pull you out of the routine of an otherwise selfish and self-absorbed existence-
get you present to the fact that we’re literally all out here doing the same thing:

buying milk and bread.

struggling to parallel park.

setting 76 alarms for that *one* thing.

cutting our bangs too short.

trying to find ourselves.

trying to find something sacred- ANYTHING sacred,

something to sanctify.

Looking for GOD.

Finding Him.

Wandering off.

Finding Him again.
And again.
And again.

Dancing around the edge of the ditch we swore we wouldn’t fall back into.

Falling into it anyways.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Not forgiving ourselves.

Forgiving ourselves.

Trying to find love.

Terrified of losing the love we already have.

Terrified, period.

It’s okay. It’s all okay.

We are the same. 

So.

ease up.

And try not to be an asshole.

 

 

I will be trying too.

for you. [from the astronaut]

I wanted to give you all of the flowers in the whole damn world.
because no one had done that before.
And I mean, with good reason.
It’s ridiculous. And most importantly- impossible.
I wanted to be so… ridiculous for you.
and with you.
and I didn’t know I could be that person –
stupid-smiling to myself, looking at rings in shop windows,
thinking about camping beneath the northern lights.
naming all the stars we could see.
how trite.
I can’t believe you made me want to name a star for you.
After you.
After us.
After whatever it is that this is that I can’t get myself to name because nothing is big enough.
nothing is beautiful enough.

I was taught that love was brutal work. Hard work. Hard learning.
But this
this is as effortless as breathing.
And I always thought I resented those kinds of relationships- felt like they couldn’t be real.
couples who Eskimo kiss and hold hands all the time – even in the sweltering December heat –
and intentionally colour coordinate their outfits so that they look like a couple.
Ya know- the kind of couples who say “baaaaabe” in an annoying, whiny voice,
and then pout at each other.
Yeah, oddly specific.
What I mean is…

cheesy couples.

I resented them.
But if I’m honest…I think I was bitter that I didn’t know love like that.
I was bitter about my own cynicism and lack of faith that two people could choose each other on purpose.
every day.
in spite of this ugly place [I mean, not to be a Negative Neil– I know you know how hard that is for me].

That’s how you make me feel;
Like I could give up all the bullshit-
the distrust, the self-sabotage, the dark, dark past that I accused of shadowing me [but I was willingly towing along].

I don’t want any of it anymore.
I’m tired of pretending that I do.

I want the sun.
And your fingers in my hair.
And the long road.

I want a whole world with you.
one where we’d never hear the police sirens.
and we’d cook pasta every night – gluten free, [because I want to take care of you and I won’t let you ignore your allergy]
I’d call you ‘baby’ even when I was mad, and you’d tie the apron round my back, and read to me from that book of literary essays you have somewhere on your shelf [that you bought at that second hand book store in 5th avenue].

it’s boring as shit, but I love your voice.
and I’d listen to anything you had to say.

I’d hear it.

 

the astronaut 1.0

 

“If you were me… which would you get a friend?” You held up two completely different books. One was an autobiography by some supposedly important person. The other was a cook book.

Odd as options pitted against each other.

I was so confronted by the fact that you’d come up to me, that for a moment I just looked at you. I had been looking over at you from the shelf I was hovering in front of for ten solid minutes. I was just so …taken by your face- it was more structured than my entire life.

It was such a nice face. Continue reading

the astronaut.

 

“… outer space is incredibly sexy…” 

I laugh, “how do you figure?”
I put down the book I’ve been “reading”. I’m only on page seven. Have been for the past half an hour- for the past three nights. Because of your finger tracing the birth mark on my elbow. It’s soothing but also distracting- the kind of sensation that makes me lazy and drowsy. A perfect lullaby. It’s routine, but I don’t think you do it consciously.
“I just… I’ve always thought so.” Continue reading

un-sky.

 

Why’s it called the ‘sky’ anyways. Why not ungroundUnground. Get it? Like-

I get it, but it’s stupid and unoriginal. try harder, why aren’t you trying harder?  I want to say it, but I don’t.

and I’d rather think of the ground as unsky. but that’s hardly original either.

I like this game. renaming things that have already been named. seeing if we could do a better job.

like how I suddenly became Mrs …You. And you became, well… Mr Me. Continue reading