Smile to sorry 

Merry to misery 

Everything has changed

Serenity sweeping in my backyard,

I remember my Payal fluttering to the porch, matching to the beats of the wind

I’m glad to find the reminisce of the smell of betrayal

Crushed to every rust on my childhood swing,

Whispers of birds on slow purple camelia dawn, faded

Renewed to cries.

Childhood is a fragile time,

I wished to sing every song I wrote, relish every curve of the imperfect line

From nursery rhymes to spoken words,

From bedtime stories to chasing deadlines due midnights

Times have changed

But a part of me is the same

When I committed a mistake

I repented, regret, repeat, regret,

Because of the look in your eyes, created craters in my heart,

Now sins have drowned in the pearly sky,

Amber dust pulls down tears from my lachrymal glands

Is it an allergy or the fear of truth?

Neighbors play games late at night, eavesdropping

The cacophonous sounds from the next door,

Makes me feel like time travel,

An escape from anxiety which took my sleep a hostage

I remember the time we spent together,

Board games, warm milk,

In steel glass, you loved your Tupperware so much.

Cadbury dairy milk silk,

I miss cliche’s from dull stories, your lovely glory

Now the book of you and I, have another plot twist,

I lay on the concrete floor, desperately waiting for a hand to pick me up.

I wish you understood,

I am the protagonist of my life, not a remote control.

Everything has changed

Small talk to silence

Meters to miles

Differences

i had a feeling you might not stay

so let my phone ring a few times before i answered

i prepare to let myself be hurt as

i listen to your voice make promises

that you werent capable of keeping

you take my hand in yours

and i knew that once you planted a kiss

on my palm, that i would hold in on

my heart later that night to heal

the crack you left in it as you drove

away before i stepped inside

you let me believe you

when you knew you didnt even

believe yourself, how selfish of

you to use me because you knew i

was the only one in love, the only

one of us that would do

anything for the other

your lips that were once on my

body are now forgein to my skin and

i wonder if you found someone

else to replace my seat in the pasenger

side of your car

i cant bear the thought of you

listening to her favorite songs the

way you never did with mine

- why was it so easy for you to leave?

and if you show me the stars in your eyes, how much of my reflection would gleam in those galaxies? i drink the fruit under your eyelids and your fingers carve rhapsody in my scapular. one day i will blossom from the weight of your words and my heart will spill onto yours. i will grip tighter as we fall. the way rekindled meteorites flirt with fire, burn like absinthe before spiraling down to earth.

and if i sang siren in the waves, would you let me find forgiveness under the sea? kiss abalone shells to be satisfied with the beauty of absence? darling, we do not live for this world. we cup constellations in our hands and dip our toes in the surf, and still we long to press our palms into sollipse. and still we long.

and if you painted renaissance on my cheekbones, folded me like marzipan and told me we were meant to be together, would i feel whole again? or would i fly from this fantasy, water bleeding from a broken pot? run and run until i find someone to hold me back. someone who holds me like a listless lover. bend my legs like willow branches; i’ll squeeze to fill your cracks. catch your fingers in my hair until we are one. until i can only breathe through your lips. until i can only breathe you.

when you leave, shed my skin like a crescent moon.

don’t make the bed. if you love me, let me pretend we are still stuck in eternity.

Maybe my heart isn’t the home you are looking for. Just maybe I am a fixer-upper that called to you to show affection and compassion. Perhaps that is what my heart is for you. You helped gut out the things I no longer needed that hurt me and polished the things that I kept hidden under the floorboards of my soul. Your gentle hands caressed over my foundation, memorizing the veins along with the concrete of my walls. You were so gentle with me; how can I not fall in love with you?

Like all fixer-uppers that transform into a beautiful house, this isn’t meant for you for the long term. You came into my life when the autumn moon was so yellow, and the trees began to change to rustic colors. You were sent to me to heal me as I was meant to heal you, too. We had a lot of things to learn about each other and, most notably, about ourselves. I am glad we were on this journey together, even if it was for a short time. My bones will never be brittle anymore as you fed me your love and affection, and your soul will always know what unconditional love feels like from a stranger.

These are the things we will never forget.

A year has passed, and the winter sun drifts off to sleep as the dusk softly colors the evening sky. My heart whispers of a daydream, and my soul is drunk off you.

I will never be the same, and I am more than okay with that.

Yours in a different lifetime,

M.

p.s. I'll meet you on crystal white sands and sapphire blue waters under two collided sunsets.

Running through the story, rereading my manuscript. This was spectacular. I look up, in the open air. I could stay here forever, but unfortunately, that can’t happen.

I smile, start acting out the manuscript, with cruel humour. “The night of salvation, or will it be doomsday? It’s sensational!” I scream, contorting my body, and then sitting down in my swivel chair.

I pull myself up, in the morning. I pick up my manuscript. I was gonna bring this to the director. I’d get my job back! I smile to myself. “I’ll pay them back! Those who said I wouldn’t make it!” I laugh, maniacally to some, but passionately, to me. I get in my car and drive off. This is the best thing the world has seen.

I pull myself out of the car, looking nothing short of perfection. I open the door and walk in, confidently as ever. I open the door to the Director’s office and slam it onto her desk. She looks at me, but her eyes aren’t her own. They are black as space, and she grasps my face with both hands, and I’m looking at her like she’s stupid, which in my mind, she is. “Director, what are you-” I’m cut off by... something with white eyes. I recognised this from the story. It’s exactly the same. Black opal body, and white eyes. I laugh with wicked horror.

Unlike in my story, however, this one seemed to be at bay, by the Director. It went to lunge, but she held out her hand, and it stopped mid-air. I laugh horribly. “This is insane! How do you have one under your control! You were supposed to die with the rest of the world!”

The Director’s eyes glow, and their depth seems to increase until they remind me of the galaxy. I think I see stars, and bits of colour in there. I notice this and point it out. I blackout.

Well, I wouldn’t have written this, if I had died, with the rest of the world.

you so badly wanted

to destroy that body they found

dead in the lake. the ache with which you

looked upon that salt-swollen thing, knowing later

you would dream of bleeding knives as the television sang on

about its parents. the crosshatches etched into its stomach,

one for each time you stared up at the ceiling and apologized

to god. hollow little apologetic girl. you didn’t mean the nice things you said.

you wanted him to watch. wanted him to look on as you made a mess of purity.

saying, i could do it to myself if i wanted to. i could take this life of mine and swallow it whole and spit it out seething and bruised. i could ruin anything i wanted to.

if my hands were daggers. if this life were a body for me to tear apart. i would do it.

sorry baby, they cleaned her body and put makeup on her face. the cracks in the ceiling

thought nothing of the forgiveness you begged for in your sleep.

He was a strange bird. Not your average student or friend. He never talked much and often you would find him folding up into himself.

To say he was an intovert would almost be an understatement. I always thought of him being selective with the company he chose.

Ask him his favorite thing to do, he would say reading and playing chess. He found in chess, he was like a pawn, small in size and a different shape from the other pieces. He called pawns, sacrificial lambs willingly going to slaughter to save their King, to protect their Queen, and defend honor with their last breath.

Those words alone told me the kind of person he was.

When it came to reading, he almost always talked about the supporting characters that gave the hero the ability to shine. He would say if it weren't for them, the hero would be just another person in an endless stream of words on a page.

As strange as he was to most people, once you were able to ger close enough to know him, you would find he has a big heart he would unfold and take in the pain of one he thought so dearly of.

And here I stand, nearly sixty years later, looking at his headstone, slowly shaking my head and as I walk, I whisper these words, "Ori Gami, the world never knew you the way you wanted them to, but I did."

let's rule a kingdom, let's mark the stars. let's stay together, never apart.

you're fingerpainting hearts across my arm as my thumb runs over your gorgeous lips; every fiber feels the warmth of your breath as you say you love me, my bones rattle from the echo of your gaze; there's nothing compared to your presence, in a universe full of divinity.

//

souls molded from stardust, your name's the only word i crave to know; we're sitting on gold thrones with half our hearts drunk on love and the other half bleeding confessions that the world already knows; humanity bows to the higher power, but what's greater than my desire, to taste your name and kiss you, all within the same hour?

//

we're splattered in sunset colors, rulers of the sky to a world that's waiting to follow; eternity written through the stars in your name, my soul's interlaced through your unyielding gaze; our footsteps trail to our sacred place, let's leave our empire waiting, just for the day.

please,

just call my name.

it’s been a year since we last spoke, probably for the better (i know this but it doesn't make it any easier). the way he hurt me has not completely healed, even after all this time, even after having other lovers.

when we first met, i was unsure about moving further but he was certain, at least, this is what he swore. after a few attempts of leaving him before any real feelings awoke in me, he finally convinced me that everything would be okay. that we would work out and he wouldn't hurt me or make a fool of me. and i believed him. the first of many mistakes.

a couple of months pass, and i was in deep. i knew it was a short amount of time but i didn't care. because that's what love was, right? spontaneous and limitless? i thought he was good, i swore it. to my mother, my closest friends, even my older brother. the most cliche thing to come out of my mouth, “he isn't like the other boys, he is so good” mistake number two. it was my first time thinking i was in love, i didn't know any better. and when i tasted the honey that dripped off of his tongue when he spoke sweet things, i thought the honey was made just for me. he said he loved me, he said i was the only one, he said i was better than the ones that stood before me. whatever he said, it was. because it was him, and how could he ever lie? no, he’s too good to lie. lying is what other boys did and didn't i swear he was nothing like them? i think it’s funny, i would tell him how sweet he was and he would say “trust me, i’m really not” but i didn’t listen. mistake after mistake. i know better now.

nothing changed for a while. it thought we were in deep but i was completely unaware that i would come to realize that it was only me. i was the only one who meant what i said, i was the only one who wasn’t lying, i was the only one who was giving love. and oh, how hurt was i going to be when i found out that there was a big difference between lust and love. that’s what he was really here for. that’s why he wanted me. so i could send him pictures, so he could hear me moan his name, so i could let him park the car at the park and climb in the backseat to do what lovers do. i went home that night, his lips still lingering on my chest. i closed my eyes, thinking of him and the way he tasted.

that next morning was the first time that heartache hit me so hard that i couldn’t breathe. it was the first time i didn’t feel my heart beating in my chest. it couldn’t be. but my own eyes wouldn’t lie to me the way he did. i lay there, accepting what he had done to me. i’d been ghosted. blocked from calling him, texting him, being in his life. and it hurt. because that's when the realization slapped me in the face. he didn't mean any of the sweet things he said. he didn't really love me. he used me. and then threw me away. and there i was, sobbing because the feelings that i had were real and they weren't reciprocated.

that was the first time a boy ever hurt me that badly. i wasn't able to eat. i would be going about my day and suddenly be unable to breathe when he entered my daydreams. reminiscing on the things he told me made me nauseous. i felt betrayed because i told him everything about me. my dreams, fears, secrets. i told him i couldn't handle being left. i told him i was afraid of being made a fool. and still, he hurt me in every way he promised he wouldn't.

the first thing i did was blame myself. what did i do wrong? did i say the wrong thing? was my intimacy not good enough? is it because i wasn’t skinny enough? did he think i wasn’t pretty enough? what do i need to do differently to make him want me again? i thought i was so in love that i needed his attention and his validation. i wanted to hear him tell me how good i was. i wanted him to only want me and no one else. because i only wanted him and no one else. i was so willing to change anything about myself that he wanted me to.

and this went on for the next three years (maybe even every now and then to this day). because i let him hurt me the same way he did the first time, over and over again. at that point, i knew he didn't love me as i did him. i also knew that because i wanted him so bad, i was willing to settle for the only piece of himself that he was willing to give me. lust. when i look back, a quote pops into my head, "how empty of me to be so full of you".

its been a year. ive grown since then. ive tried to heal from the ache he left in my heart. i don't really think of him anymore and when i do, it doesn't hurt as much. but still, i know that if he came back to my city, my heart would begin to beat a little faster. i know if he called me and i heard his voice asking to pick me up, i wouldn't be able to breathe for a minute. i know we would spend a night in the back seat of his car, like we used to at the park. and i know all of the feelings would rush back like a tsunami. because the truth is, my heart hurts, but it still beats for you. even if yours doesn't beat for me.

On thick cream paper,

Ari,

We were sprawled on a blue and white gingham picnic blanket. You put your arms around me. You could feel my body gently shivering in the wind. It was too cold for a picnic, but there we were. I brought a book which I didn’t read. You brought earphones, but the silence was too engrossing. We sat pressed together. Cold then warm with the undulating movement of our breath. The cheese was gummy, but the bread was delicious- rough and solid. My mouth was dusted with flour. You grinned, then kissed me, sharing the burden of my floury mouth. The sun set, turning the gold to pink and finally to grey. I rested my head on your chest. An early cherry blossom landed on your nose. We laughed. I kicked off my shoes, braving the cold I danced barefoot in the grass to the music you shared with me. Two quiet honey-colored voices. When I came back from dancing, I found all the bread gone. I looked into your flour touched face. Your guilty eyes met mine. I smirked. Grabbing my coat, I ran down the hill to the river, yelping as it reached out for my already slimy feet. 

You were light; I was the window you shined through. You were a feather; I had roots. You were cold; I was warm. You were the yellow flowers that decorated the cliffside; I was the ocean underneath. And together we bent, shook and danced, but never fell. We lingered, sprawled out on the winter grass, idly braiding it with our toes.  

I jumped into the front seat of your silver car. The upholstery was dingy, but the windows were rolled down. It had a good stereo. I stuck my head into the wind, chasing the music we let slide into the air. The meaning of the lyrics eluded me, and by the glazed-over expression on your face, I don’t think you understood them, either. But we didn’t need to. The song was ours: its meaning lay in the soft curve of your mouth, the slate grey sky, and the chunky blanket wrapped snugly over my legs. I knew you. I knew your too big feet, the funny way you walked, how your face lit up when you saw the sea. I tailored the song to fit us, like how my body fits against yours. I watched your maroon shoes tap to the music and smiled softly to myself. We were as mismatched as blue and orange socks. I was lovely, and you were you. I miss you. 

I saw you in a tabloid this morning. I didn’t recognize the girl you were with. She wore pink lipstick. Pink. I imagined how your lips would look after you kissed her and laughed. You would have laughed with me. You are the only one who could ever make pink lipstick work. I knew you were drunk. You rock back on your heels when you’re drunk. She was probably drunk too. You weren’t wearing your maroon shoes. Your quirk: your maroon shoes, the stacks of records littering your living room, me. It’s why they loved you. Your songs aren’t as good now I’ve stopped writing them. I wrote you. I captured you with pen and paper. Without me you’re losing yourself, you’re falling, you’re floating: Pink lipstick and People magazine. 

Over facebook messenger, 

Ari: Is there any real difference: burgundy lipstick, New York Times interviews; pink lipstick, features in People Magazine. Just lipstick, just paper.

Chrisynthamum:The difference was that I was more than my lipstick and you were more than your paper. Who wrote your last song? 

Ari: I did.

Chrisynthamum: So you’ve changed.

Ari: I guess I have.

Chrisynthamum: Now you respond to my letters with text messages. 

Ari: Now my life is a series of pictures, not words.  

Chrisynthamum: Now you wear Vans, they’re not even maroon. 

Ari: Now my songs are played on the radio rather than listened to on records.

Chrisynthamum: Now you understand every word you hear.

Ari: Now I date a girl who wears pink lipstick, but trust me, it doesn’t color my mouth.  

On printer paper

Ari,

I moved into a new apartment yesterday. I still haven’t decided how I want to decorate it. The walls are the palest of yellows. In the kitchen there is a green stove from the fifties. Painted in a corner are two blue flowers that look like forget-me-nots. They are small and only noticeable if you look, but to look you have to be expecting to find something. Not many people walk into an apartment expecting to find tiny blue flowers painted on the wall. I traced their delicate petals with my fingers, then sat on the floor. It was rough old wood: light in color, but not in temperament. I still haven’t picked out a couch. My old couch was for my old apartment. I can see you sitting next to me. You are fiddling with your fingers. Your eyes are frantically searching the bare walls. That’s how I found the blue flowers.

We would sit, hands pressed together, taming the wild emptiness of the space. I’m writing to you because there are two blue flowers on my wall, and an empty place on my empty floor. I still love you, or I love the person you were. The person you would become once I changed you back. 

I miss your breath on raw winter days, the way you would breathe puffy white clouds of fog, laughing as you chased the dispersing droplets of condensation. It’s cold here. Do you remember what winter is like?

Ari,

I went couch shopping. I couldn’t decide: a green old fashioned sofa, velvet with velvet colored buttons or a beige one from Ikea with perfect legs. I chose the beige, even though the green fit the room. I didn’t like the thought of an old couch standing on an old floor. This one has fresh legs. I bought a coffee table that matched, on it I put some blue flowers, but unlike the ones in the corner these will die. Maybe the next flower on my coffee table will be an iris. It would look nice with the yellow. 

I haven’t used the couch much. I like sitting on the floor. He always greets me with a warm tired embrace. I can feel all the feet that have worn his planks smooth. The patterns of their calluses are etched into his memory. The floor might be smooth, but my couch lacks its grit. My couch lacks the imprint of your bum. 

Ari,

My feet are submerged in the icy water of the ocean. I can feel the cold current tugging at the miniscule flakes of dead skin, falling limply from my feet. Maybe the fish will make a meal of my toes’ left overs. It’s March, cloudy, but not very cold. I am thawing. The blue flowers died, but I decided irises were too gaudy. Instead, because it’s March, I picked a couple of crocuses and daffodils. I decided a superabundance of blossoms were better suited to my mood then the pale delicacy of a snowdrop. I’ve lost you, but your corpse is very fertile. I am dating a man named Neil. 

Over Instagram, 

Ari: Neil?

Chrisynthamum: We broke up. 

Ari: What did you expect when you still write letters to your ex. 

Chrisynthamum: I expected him to break up with me. 

Ari: There you go, I think my corpse is still fresh.

Chrisynthamum: Fresh enough that there is a possibility your not dead? 

Ari: No, but fresh enough that I’m still not quite sure I’m dead. 

Chrisynthamum: What’s the difference? 

Ari: The difference is that the power doesn’t lie with the perception of the living.

On cardstock,

Chrysanthemum,  

I am a web. I reach out only to hold myself up. I am a tangled ball of yarn pulled apart to reveal twisted insides. I’m vulnerable in a prideful sort of way. I lose myself in what I catch... I caught you. I lost myself in you.. And now you are gone; now I am just a web. I tried on my maroon shoes, the ones you loved so much. They didn’t fit. Maybe it was because I wore them without socks. I don’t like wearing socks in the summer. In the summer we don’t need coats or eachother. But I’m cold. I hold your songs. I sing them softly because I am scared. I’m scared of you. I’m scared of being without you..

We stood on the bridge, throwing pebbles, Watching them fall. I leaned over the railing. I waited to see them splash, but they fell too far. Your hair was in my face. I surrendered my concentration to the smell of your shampoo. The smell of strawberries. You are a strawberry on a cloudy day. I think you blew the pebbles away with your sighs. Instead of falling they flew on the wind of you. We are a field of flowers in winter. Not quite yet blooming. I am crap at writing letters. I miss you. I want to hear the music in your words, they are a lot better than mine. Write me a song. I will be there to sing it to you.