On waking up alone
Today, you sent me some poems before I even got the chance to take the sand out of my eyes. When I finally decided to get off my ass and out of bed, I told you how it was so nice waking up to your name on my inbox and Naï on my chest.
On a bad day, I would probably invalidate how I felt and tell myself that I’m just saying that to make me believe that my mornings aren’t as lonely as they used to be. But today is a good day. Today I believe all that I said. Today I believe that all I said will forever be true.
***
I came across this post on twitter and it made me think of you and the other dods.
It felt so timely considering how my day started. And yes, I agree with this faceless digital crystal ball wielding astrologer, platonic love does sometimes go harder.
I think about love and how I’ve let so many people in only to have them poke holes in my heart. I regret none of them and I don’t think I ever wasted any time I’ve spent with them. But I only say that because I’m no longer angry and all the pain they’ve caused sting a little less these days. I haven’t forgotten anything, and forgiveness is a whole other story, but at least memories hit me differently now. I’m just glad you three were there to fill in some of the holes that were left empty and in need of warmth. The love we have for each other takes no other shape but the shape that it needs to be to fill all the jagged edges and cracks of a heart that needs mending. When I think about love, I think about you three.
***
We talk about wistfulness and look back at the hearts we’ve broken, the mess we’ve made. We talk about them and tell each other “I’m so glad we can laugh about this now.” When we were younger, did we ever talk about how we wanted to be loved? I imagine we can laugh about those, too. You’ve been swept off your feet by a thug you met at the beach. I’ve been asked to dance in the moonlight by a bum. You’ve gone on a museum date with a cokehead. And I’ve received a 21st century version of a mix tape from a manchild. You’ve had a poem written about you that references drugs, a short play about me that kept referencing my breasts. How many hearts do we need to break before someone writes a song about us? And when someone does and it sounds suspiciously like a Weird Al or Garfunkel and Oates musical parody more than a ballad by The National, will we laugh about that, too?
Everything is less painful when I imagine our lives as a buddy rom-com with the screen showing our lives in parallel—- one girl who keeps building a home but is too afraid to let anyone in and another girl who pitches tents way too close to her own home. I don’t know how this story ends but I know one thing for sure: we will definitely laugh about this, too.
