No Boundary on Color
© Rachel C
Have you ever thought that maybe this is my book?
I know you wonder if this is my life, is this is who I am. If this day will remain that way I lived it in my memory, if I won’t skew the dialog or the images in my mind. If I will remember at least what he said, if not his name or why I loved him. But at least who he was in the moment he became it, who I was in the moment I opened my smile and let my walls break down.
I’m tired of writing poems about dolls protected in glass walls, metaphors for my heart in its case of crystal and ice. I am tired of reaching too deep for something I won’t feel once I bring it to the surface. Honestly, the dark, twisty pieces are dying out, there is hardly anything left to hold on to. I’m melting, peacefully, with my smile growing brighter like quarter-moons and Cheshire curves. I can see something below the layers; I can cross my fingers that I am not the only one.
Maybe I am still waiting, for someone to love, for something to spark that nostalgia that pangs in my stomach. Those things motivate me, but never as much as I can, when I walk into a conversation without meaning to, when I stumble onto a personality so unlike those I am familiar with.
I want to know him, but he’s not someone to love, at least not for me. Though, in this moment I can recall imagining seeing him again, and a lot like love I’ll smile and recall his name and why I spoke in the first place. Maybe I’ll take that painting with me, when I leave everything behind. Maybe I’ll take his memory, when I try to forget all others. I plan to write them down and leave them on paper for others to read, and I can forget these years. But, maybe I’ll remember him and his red monster, maybe I’ll remember that I can be iceless, familiar, and smile. I like to think that I can smile—for all of our sakes.
I’ll take some things, and leave the others, when I’m riding on trains I’ll remember what I’ve brought. But for now, my porcelain exterior must be cracked, the glass barrier broken down. I need to join the folks as they wander side streets, smell the toxic air if only to cough it up again. In that meantime, before trains leave stations and my three years are on paper, I’ll hold his red monster in the back of my mind; my soundtrack playing along, illustrating my story, my narrative following along. I’ll look back, to the depths of my mind, back where I remember days of rain and the smell of steam from city streets, and I will smile. I will draw myself out from the dark places.
June 17, 2007
Back to the Sun and the Square
Have you ever thought that maybe this is my book?
I know you wonder if this is my life, is this is who I am. If this day will remain that way I lived it in my memory, if I won’t skew the dialog or the images in my mind. If I will remember at least what he said, if not his name or why I loved him. But at least who he was in the moment he became it, who I was in the moment I opened my smile and let my walls break down.
I’m tired of writing poems about dolls protected in glass walls, metaphors for my heart in its case of crystal and ice. I am tired of reaching too deep for something I won’t feel once I bring it to the surface. Honestly, the dark, twisty pieces are dying out, there is hardly anything left to hold on to. I’m melting, peacefully, with my smile growing brighter like quarter-moons and Cheshire curves. I can see something below the layers; I can cross my fingers that I am not the only one.
Maybe I am still waiting, for someone to love, for something to spark that nostalgia that pangs in my stomach. Those things motivate me, but never as much as I can, when I walk into a conversation without meaning to, when I stumble onto a personality so unlike those I am familiar with.
I want to know him, but he’s not someone to love, at least not for me. Though, in this moment I can recall imagining seeing him again, and a lot like love I’ll smile and recall his name and why I spoke in the first place. Maybe I’ll take that painting with me, when I leave everything behind. Maybe I’ll take his memory, when I try to forget all others. I plan to write them down and leave them on paper for others to read, and I can forget these years. But, maybe I’ll remember him and his red monster, maybe I’ll remember that I can be iceless, familiar, and smile. I like to think that I can smile—for all of our sakes.
I’ll take some things, and leave the others, when I’m riding on trains I’ll remember what I’ve brought. But for now, my porcelain exterior must be cracked, the glass barrier broken down. I need to join the folks as they wander side streets, smell the toxic air if only to cough it up again. In that meantime, before trains leave stations and my three years are on paper, I’ll hold his red monster in the back of my mind; my soundtrack playing along, illustrating my story, my narrative following along. I’ll look back, to the depths of my mind, back where I remember days of rain and the smell of steam from city streets, and I will smile. I will draw myself out from the dark places.
June 17, 2007
Back to the Sun and the Square
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