Lately, the photos I took for an installation have been following me. It was almost like an omen. In one of them, the pretty thing I got her, hangs on the back of my bathroom door. It’s a scrap of fabric. It’s a moment in time. It is a sweetness that we made. It’s art, really.
The apartment was hot and shebreezed in. Her voice still shooting electricity to my toes via my spinal cord. She's smiling.
And there’s a familiar scrap of fabric.
I only want art that feels like this: like the floor falls away.
My fingers itch for her the way that fingers tend to do.
I itch for that same ease of closeness, and I let my heart quiet.
Although thunder tends to be pretty loud.
When we are in the same rooms, the same patios, the same square of the beer-wet dancefloor, I look at the ocean between us and remember that I can’t swim.
My skin is your skin.
These barstools aren’t close enough.
This room isn’t big enough for us.
You are not close enough.
Do not let go of my hand.
When the ocean is there I wonder,
“Is it because we were too much? Or is it because we were not enough?”
You can’t will an ocean away with wishes.
I don’t have the right to ask for that.
But I can learn to swim.
I can leave you a message in a bottle.
“I do not know how to ask you for comfort if I’m afraid that ‘for right now’ means, ‘not ever’”
Loving Moon Girl is as natural as how often I want to wrap my arms around her waist. But maybe the truth is like this ocean, inevitable. Necessary.
Maybe we will not go home to that little love.
I am on this sandy bank and I ache all over.