“I’m in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh.” ~ Robyn

~

Somebody said you’ve got a new friend.

Is it true? Do you pretend she’s me? Because I pretend he’s you.

We were not actors, you and I, the way we laughed and circled each other in the rain, the way we ebbed and flowed like the rolling tide, or a trackless, reckless ride. We were like a fairy tale, like a movie too.

But love isn’t always wine and roses. Sometimes it’s caster oil and thorns.

Sometimes it hurts and bleeds as we quietly mourn.

By ourselves, in our own minds.

Sometimes it hurts so bad our vision gets blurred and our head aches and our stomachs tumble and turn.

Sometimes a long ago hurt feels so fresh it still makes our skin burn.

Is she everything you’re looking for? Does she make your coffee and pick her wet towel up off the floor? Does she try to be funny and sweet and intellectual and effortlessly chic? Does she kiss you on the mouth first and then gently smack your cheek? Just because you were being so cute and witty it made her knees weak?

Do you pretend I’m her when the sun rises, and sets? Does your heart pine for me, laden with regrets?

Do you still want me when the ocean tumbles violent, but the beaches, the dunes, and the grasses stay silent?

Do you pretend she’s me as the sky pivots from a dusty pink rose to a periwinkle blue?

Because, my love, I still pretend he’s you.

I pretend he’s you as my hair lifts and whips, when my eyes water and shine, when the air is blustery and all five of my senses slip and slide offline. When that sudden breeze pushes through, I forget about him and pretend he’s you.

We are not together, but I still think about it.

I think about the way you winked at me when you lifted your beer. I remember how you smelled my hair, and kissed my neck, and whispered hungry words into my ears, on purpose, with sexy wandering hands, just to turn me on, and switch my gears. You made me go from stoically serious to wanton, from all business to uninhibited and wild—your charming gifts were like Christmas or a candy to a child.

I remember the walks and the shifting, the hand holding, and the quiet presence. I remember the way your eyes lit up, popping like stars inside your animated face, when you talked about the things that made your blood boil and pump and race.

Do you look for me in the moonlight, specifically a full moon like the Harvest Moon of September or the Strawberry Moon in June? Do you look for me in the spring time, under that big, beautiful Flower Moon boasting its effervescent hue? Tell me, love, do you look for me in the night sky when I look for you?

Do you hear me inside your favorite song, the one that always made you stop what you were doing and happily hum along? The one that made you play air guitar and air drums with your mean get-down grin, the one we grooved to on the porch in the summer, between sips of tonic and gin?

Moving on is difficult work. It’s steady aching melancholy hazy dull grinding head swimming lonely work. It’s one wobbly foot in front of the other blind walking through muckity-muck boot slogging work.

Do you smell me in the Jasmine bouquet you brought her, the ones she said are not her favorite but you too late remember they are mine? Does your tongue recall me velvet and smooth when it puckers from the tannins of her sharp but heady wine?

I know I still exist in the dusty corners of your house, my shed cells, an eyelash or two. I’m in that chipped mug, the one I dropped by accident, the one that left coffee stains on the rug, the one you still keep in the back of your cabinet. I’m in your favorite T-shirt, the one I stole and wore to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings. I’m in the very bookmark I gave you, the one that still resides squarely inside the book you find impossible to finish. Maybe it’s because you don’t want our chapter to end just yet? It’s torture, but I think this way.

Somebody said you’ve got a new friend.

Tell me, does she love you better than I can?

~