Just. Breathe.

I've counted days and days. I've counted hours, minutes, seconds, breaths. I've watched people pass by me every day, their same routines, their coffee cups and important phone calls. I've stood still in the middle of this roundabout, wondering where to go next, hoping that you would come around and everything would go back to normal.
I've spent days not giving a fuck, sealing off my emotions, jumping from one guy to the next, just to find someone who is remotely like you. I've sat here for hours wondering what to type up next, just so I could get you out of my head, my life, my mind my past. Everywhere I've gone, I've looked for a face that doesn't exist anymore.
I've tried to cry you out, to scream you out, to phase you out, to blur you out, to shut you out. I've tried to drown you out, breathe you out, write you out, stress you out. Everytime I've just drowned myself in my emotionless pit of solitude. I've tried to come up to take a gasp of fresh air, only to push myself back down again. I've spent months in guilt, wondering what I else I could have done to make things better, to make them right.
"You're looking for a face that's long gone. It's time you moved on. He's not coming back."
That one line was a slap on my face to bring me back to reality.
I have finally moved on and found my place in the world. And I'm beyond happy that you're not part of my new life.

Round 2

Fuck you. And your existence.
You're the same.

Upside down.

"Are you frightened by perfection?
Is this who you are, not who you want to be?
Are you frightened by neglection?
Am I who you want to see yourself to be?"

Trigger-happy.

And she sits in front of the mirror every day at 6PM, just as the sun is about to set and her husband is about to come home, and she sees the caricature the mirror throws back at her. The lips just about to crack into a smile, the eyes just about to spill their secrets, the fingers just about the texture of silk.
Just about, but never quite. Never there. Never complete.
And the rouge cracks in its little black box, and the perfume evaporates in its pretty little bottle, and the lipstick dries in its little gold case. The dressing table grows old with age, the termites bite through the wood. The mirror gets dusty and distorts her face everyday.
Old age, and cracked bones. A dead colony, and dusty shelves.
And even if she cleans it all up, sweeps it aside with one hand in a drunken rage, it does nothing to hide her scars and wrinkles. The rage does not take away with it her dirty secrets and ugly lies. The broken boxes and bottles and cases all taped together do little to help her glue back her crushed spirit.
Battered and bruised and broken. Dark and dingy and depressed.
Yet, she has lived her life. She has lived a life. She's had the sunshine and the rainbows, the hurricanes and the showers. The ups and the downs, the good and the bad. Brunches and weddings, smiles and tears. Children and grandchildren, friends and foes. Fireplaces and crystal mantelpieces, skintight dresses and knitted Christmas sweaters.
So she'll make do with her cracked makeup and cracked mirror and cracked life. She'll wipe away non-existent tears, and give her non-existent smile.
Perfectly flawed.

So kiss me.

I could have kissed you
under cherry blossoms,
pale petals drifting down
like the trees wanted to
pretend they could be
snowclouds.

I could have kissed you
in the rain, drenched to
our bones and not even
caring that the skies
opened up above us
and tried to wash us out.

I could have kissed you
in a clearing in the most
secluded woods, with
just the sound of wind
rustling through the leaves
and a few voyeuristic
finches peeping at us.

Instead, I kissed you
in the parking lot of a
Waffle House, just shy
of 2 a.m. in the middle
of a hectic week, with
our waitress grinning
at us from the other
side of the window,
because, honestly,
how could I not?

Home.

My earliest memory is of nearly drowning. This place is making me drown.

7105.

Baby blue eyes and a mohawk. That's what I miss the most.

Amidst all the chiffon and silk, brunches and tea parties, makeup and fake smiles, I remember what reality felt like in the past one month. Grass blades, midnight walks to track fields, drunken stupor, and those baby blue eyes. If I think hard, I can almost see the fine details of a shoulder tattoo, I can remember the defined outlines of a ticklish back, I can almost feel the dips and curves of a toned body.
Many times I've picked up my phone to type out a demanding text for meeting up. And then I remember that there's 7105 miles of oceans and seas and countries and islands in between; 7105 miles of things that I don't care about, things that haven't mattered any less; 7105 miles of the earth, of politics, of people that do not matter; 7105 miles that I wish I could drive in a few hours and see you again.
Hog the bed, sleep near you if not next to you, be able to touch you when possible. Force you to come out, chase me around the grass without shoes, pick me up and throw me over your shoulder.

I miss the feeling of having you near me. The feeling of being able to walk out and seeing you whenever I want. The feeling of running into you at a bus stop and having an awkward conversation in front of someone who hates you.
I just miss you. That's all. You and your baby blue eyes, shaved mohawk. And fat face. Always the fat face.