To the man-who-works-with-hands
I dreamed of the old you nights ago. In it, you found me and you told me that it wouldn’t hurt for long, that it would be okay. I placed my cheek against your chest and listened. I could hear your heart beat strong like it does in life. It anchored me, brought me peace and after a long, long time, I felt safe again.
But then I came back to this world where I couldn’t breathe, where your cruelty has become my most familiar friend, where you’d rather cast me away because it’s easier. And yet, I’ve remained near you because I know which is worse between your absence and presence.
Today is a sad day for me. It is the last time I will write to you and for you. I have said all I’ve had left to say. I ripped the words from the deepest parts of me and had them flung back at me repeatedly. I’ve been buried in the weight of my own love, my own loss, my own sorrow.
We do not choose love. It chooses us. But we do get to choose the moment we throw in our white flag. And so, you have mine, finally. While I’ve given up on the dream that you’ll come home again one day, I have not given up feeling the way I’ve felt from the moment I first saw you. You are wrong. There are things that last.
With deepest regret and unwavering love,
the girl who waited until there was no hope left.
Scrubbing clothes in the rain yesterday did me in. I spent today rolling around in bed trying to sweat a fever out and watching YouTube videos in desperate hope of learning something about pop culture. I learnt about queefing, Netflix-and-chill and the orgasm inducing mushrooms. Pop culture scares me.
It rained most of today. This morning it was beautiful. I love the way everything turns grey and cold and beautiful in a subdued sort of way. It’s like seeing a whole new world in a place where you’re accustomed to sharp, hot light making everything too vivid.
I spend a lot of my social time in one particular Whatsapp group. This morning one of my friends said that his grandmother’s fireside was the warmest place in Mahaicony on a rainy day and that sent us down memory lane. He shared his memories of hot chotah sprinkled with sugar and how his grandfather would say “this kiss-meh-ass boy” when he didn’t milk the cows right.
I’m just a few years younger than he is but I don’t have those sort of memories of my grandparents. By the time I was old enough to know them they had moved from the back-house where the cows and chickens were, to the front house with the shop that sold everything from a bag of rice to an ounce of nut butter.
When I consider the sort of memories we all have and I look at us and who we are now and what we do, I begin to understand what time does to us. There’s no telling what 2 or 5 or 12 years will do, where it will take us and what we’ll lose. I’m happy we didn’t lose these memories. I’m happy that the old world still lives in our hearts and our words.
Tonight, I was going through the pictures of my Whatsapp contacts. It’s a mindless habit I’ve developed and it helps me keep in touch with people’s lives. I saw a picture of my friend laugh-kissing his wife at his 30th birthday party. It was a perfect imperfect moment captured and frozen in time. I hope they’ll be able to look at that ten years from now and remember the good things, the things worth remembering while we deal with the mundane duties of life.
Netflix-and-chill, stew, who came up with that shit? I wonder what my partner would say if I looked at him and said “hey baby, wanna Netflix-and-chill?” Pop culture seems to suck the romance out of life sometimes. Or maybe I just don’t get it. For now, I’m off to bed.
Been thinking of a summer romance in the tropics. Been thinking of creating a galaxy for us, a galaxy built with the bricks of English syntax and fortified with the intricacy of meaning, built for me to be forever with you. I wanna be with you more than I’m with me.
But mostly, I’ve been thinking of love and theories of how it happens. Do we fall or grow in love? How does it happen? I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking. How do I imprison the how of love in these bricks of mine? How do I capture perfection with imperfection?
All along I was breathing and then one day you saturated the air around me. You became the oxygen entwined with my blood, rushing through every inch of me, keeping this me alive to be with the me you’ve always known. Now all I breathe is you. That’s how it happened for me.
So you see, it wasn’t a falling or a growing.
Sharing a quick moment with you while I’m on the go.
For days and days, I’ve bled for you. I’ve bled upon a page. From that place deep, deep in me I’ve bled words for you every minute, every hour, every day.
And they watch me bleed, quietly waiting, waiting for me to die. But this bleeding, it’s an endless flow of you from me. This is how I know that I can never be empty while you’re gone. Because I’m so full of you, I bleed and bleed and drown endless pages. I’ve even drowned me in you to immortalise this thing between us.
In this ocean of blood, of words, your name has become the single adjective which defines me, which floods me with meaning. So I’ve bled words for you to make space for more of you. I’ve bled words for you. I always will.
Sharing a quick moment with you while I’m on the go.