lethe

I didn't want to dive into this without dipping my toes in first, just to test the waters. Too hot or too cold? Now it feels as though I've been pushed in and held under. Boreal temperatures. I don't know when I'll resurface, or if I ever will at all.

and tonight you're away in another state, a foreign bed with a familiar lover. I imagine you're curled up together, breaths rising and falling. and she's one hundred and three miles away, not far enough, yet too far at the same time. she sleeps alone in the early hours of the night and rises with the sun, a vivacity I'll never possess. and tonight I sleep alone, pushed to one edge by my fears, with just enough space on the bed for another body to lie next to me. but not enough space in my heart.

we didn't talk last night. just a simple "goodnight" text decorated with emojis. that was all, that was it. quick and easy and simple -- all the things we are not. maybe it's wrong of me, but I am relieved. I need space, I just don't know how to say it. I can't -- how am I supposed to when I feel so trapped? so trapped by myself and my own choices. you've locked me in, possibly unknowingly. if I never kissed you that night, this wouldn't have happened. I don't want to hurt you. once I sent that letter, I knew there was no going back so now I anxiously await your reply, or better yet, your reaction. there's a lipstick print that I shouldn't have made, that same lipstick you know and love. it's placed at the end of the page that was filled with the honesty that continued to flow with every swipe of my pencil. it's not fun being stuck in this labyrinth of feelings, where a new surprise awaits me at every turn. there...

Almost five hours northeast taught me just how much there is out there for me. There are small towns laced with wicked magic and skyscrapers soaring above navy waves; cobblestone streets and coastal ways desperate to be explored; historic sites and shitty motels-- it's all part of the adventure. That's what I keep reminding myself, "It's all part of the adventure," I whisper it in the back of my mind, repeat it like a mantra, like a secret spell only cast by me. All of this, every bit and piece, every sprinkle of good and bad, each detour and route traveled, are all apart of the giant, grand adventure. So keep going, continue on, appreciate every ounce that you possibly can, because the adventure isn't over and there is so much more to see.

I write because when nobody else will listen, pen and paper will.

Your name is synonymous with magic and I've been too busy casting spells to realize there is no antidote to reverse them.

sometimes it feels like my heart is too full of nothing but love to give. and other times it is as if my heart is starving, ravenous for any taste of affection. more often than not, it's like my heart has had its appetite spoiled, the thought of love has made it nauseous. it has been too ruined by past experiences and lost loves. it is such a dangerously shifting thing, feeling too much and not enough.

"The person you date in college could end up being the person you marry," she smiles and I cringe. How frightening is it, to think that in five years, or six years, or seven, eight, maybe even nine or ten, I could be living under the same roof, with a ring, bound in promises, to someone I met at the naive ages of eighteen to twenty-three. It could be her, or someone else out there, maybe someone I've walked past countless times, or held the door for, all while not knowing the feasible significance to come. Or it could be you, just as you say and predict, but more importantly, just as I hope and wish. My wishes on every shooting star are cloaked in sincerity, bathed in trust, and past the character limit allotted. Who knew I could wish for you using a combination of words and symbols and metaphors and vows and bargains. The person I marry could be one I meet in college or it could be the one that's been there all along. Maybe that is the scariest part of it.

Eyes fluttering in the land between awake and asleep, falling dangerously towards the border, body and mind dissipating into the darkness of slumber. "Hey," she says from across the room, her body's silhouette discernable admist the cherry glow of a string of holiday lights way past their season, "You deserve better than how she's treating you." I don't know what to say, because I don't know what I'm feeling or how to appropriately respond, or whether what she's saying is even true -- Do I deserve better? Is there anything better out there? Specifically, is there anyone out there better than her? I don't think so. I mutter a "Thank you," and close my eyes, only to open my heart to what it's been holding back the entire night, through a drunken doldrum and the inevitable sobriety. I realized that all the alcohol in the world cannot possibly drown out or nourish the drought in my heart. Because right then and there, I fel...

I watched her from afar for too long and ignored my heart tugging at its leash. Exclamation points went off any time I heard her voice trail down the hallway, or whenever I caught a glimpse of her through her door cracked open. Later, we described it as playing Whack a Mole with our feelings; how we were both so eager to shut down the feelings and how enthusiastically they continuously popped up. All of this time spent admiring her, catching her gaze from across a crowded dining hall and wishing I took that chance, when she could have just been mine. I think about it too often now -- when we're just being us, sitting on her bed, as I drum my hands along her zylophone-like collarbones right before she pulls me in for a hug, her fingers sneaking under my cotton t-shirt and up my spine. "Your spine is very spine-y," she says lightheartedly, I could practically hear the smile in her voice. So many moments like this could have happened sooner, in the fall, the time where...

There were too many nights spent with my limbs tangled up with yours, hands searching for answers on your skin, and muffled smiles on my lips against yours. These were the days drenched in sun and rain and a storm of feelings we weren't prepared for. That one night, the second of the month, when I somehow gained the courage I didn't have in the fall -- it changed everything. It changed everything in all the right ways, the ways I wasn't expecting it to. I never thought I would dive in like that, after previously dancing around the topic. The water wasn't cold, as I assumed it would be. It was lukewarm and heating up with every touch of your lips against mine. Normally, I would be mentally writing down this scene, eager to remember it forever, desperate to capture every single word and look and thought passed through me. But I was too busy living in the moment, trying to take everything in and feel your lips on mine so I wouldn't have to remember it later. I wanted s...

I miss her more than I thought I would, but instead, I bite my tongue until blood spills through. How much better it is to feel the pain inside of me rather than let it out. I miss her more than I ever could, and that is the scariest part.

I linger past your doorstep, tempted to stop and knock, or better yet, slip a note underneath. But then I remember that you're not in there to answer, not there to receive my lipstick prints soaked onto an index card. You're gone, your room is emptied out. #105 is just #105 now. And I won't see for another three months. Then, my heart begins to hurt a little bit as I remember this and recognize the distance between us. 103 miles feels like too much space. And August feels like a lifetime away. "See you in August," you whispered into the top of my hair, "I'll miss you." I bit my lip, "I'll miss you, too." Less than 24 hours and I'm missing you more than I ever thought I could.

I have three mini-essays to write, but I'm writing this, instead, because it is the lonely hour and right now, I need to voice my thoughts more than I need to make assertions about 18th-century British literature. It's my second to last night here, yet you wouldn't know it by looking at my room. Everything is still in its place, there are no boxes packed up, nothing put away, there is no indication that in 39 or so hours, I will be moving out of this shoebox dorm forever, never to see the inside of room #102 ever again. I'll never come back on this floor of this building and stick my key in the door (or just open the door because we leave it unlocked) and welcome myself home. This bed will never be my bed again, the windowsill will never again double as my bookshelf, my pictures and artwork will never grace the walls again. Once I surrender my key, that's it, and I'm leaving, and I can never call this place my temporary home ever again. I know I'll be bac...

She was looking at me, much like she always did, but for some reason, this time was different. "What?" I asked, a smile toying on the corner of my lips. "Nothing," she replied with a smug smirk. "C'mon, what is it?" I pried. Our bodies were tangled up in one another as we laid there on her bed. "I'm just happy... you make me happy." How dangerous it is to know that I make her happy. Because once someone makes you happy, they then have the power to make you sad. Please don't let me fuck this up.

Her left hand poised, dabbling at keys, my right hand jabbing at my own keyboard. "It's hard to write a paper with one hand," she comments, and instinctively, I glance down at our interlocked fingers. "Do you want me to let go?" I offer. She answers quickly, not a second passing. "No," she said, and instead, she squeezed my hand tighter.

She's small and anxious, timid and struck with panic attacks. Her brown eyes are lit with speckles of amber city lights. She confesses to the entries written with my name wedged in-between the lines. Her lips met mine with nothing but innocence. I was struck with my own panic, because I realized I like her more than I ever thought I did.

I like the way she looks at me, like she wants to remember me, while I desperately want to forget myself.

I'm going to miss you, room #102. My temporary shoebox, yet my first real place. In some ways, this felt more like home than any house I've ever had. There are friends right across the hall, down the hall, too. There are vomit stains on the carpet, and sticky rings from where vodka spilled on the desk. But there are also memories, of 4 AM giggles, and 2 AM rants, and 1 AM cries, all heard, all listened, all valid. Everyone is in a rush to get home, but they don't realize, this is my home.

I trace infinity signs over clothed skin, knowing fully that they are as meaningless as this thing is. I'm no good with labels, but I wish I knew what to call this. Is it a "thing" is it a "fling" are we just "nothing?" I'm not ready to leave you for three whole months, but I'm also not ready to drive 103 miles to see you. Somewhere in between missing you and missing so much more.

Lipstick kisses on index cards make the best love notes. Rogue Volupte #7 Lingerie Pink. Slipped under the door in the hushed darkness of the night. They won't be retrieved until morning, when she rises with the sun and finds it staring at her on her floor. I complain that I don't know what I'm doing, but maybe I do, because I keep doing it. I'm craving her touch, but I'm also craving just a little bit more. I miss the cuddling, wrapped up in the scent of crushed coconuts, the excitement that ran rigorously through my veins with every text and every touch. I miss the dim light and the soft hum of your breath against my neck. Instead, I weave my fingers with hers and bite my tongue as anger sears through my veins and I desperately rewrite my messy thoughts to fit your narrative. I turn the page and look to her -- innocent, caring, kind, adorable. She actually cares about me. But this is different. It's delicate, too soft for me to handle. I am t...