more about love
Here are the leftover pieces I didn’t post because I wasn’t sure how they fit together. I’m still not sure they do. What they have in common, though, is that they’re all about the same person, the final additions to “what first love feels like” and “you are in love” and “every version of us”.
FEBRUARY 2023
FEBRUARY 2023
breaking up in New York [excerpt*]
Regardless of how many times I write, rehearse, workshop, and rewrite every scene of my life, nothing can prepare me for the reality that occurs, and I’ve lost track of which draft this final taping is. His gaze is unraveling me and my mind is, of course, completely blank.
I’m sorry, I repeat.
He once again tells me that it’s okay. I remind him that it’s not, because this is over.
He asks if I can stay for a bit. I tell him that I can.
He asks if we can cuddle. I tell him that’s not fair, which he accepts, prepared to let me leave with grace, but I move farther onto his bed anyway, knowing where this is headed and knowing that I should stop it while also knowing that neither of us will. His self-control is only so strong.
Moments pass before I lift my head from his shoulder to look at him. Are we thinking about the same thing? I whisper.
He nods.
I lean ever-so-slightly forward and he leans the rest of the way.
AUGUST 2023
AUGUST 2023
the summer of bees
No matter how much a person loves New York City, there’s undoubtedly a certain flood of relief that takes over the body upon leaving, a natural reaction tied to one’s escape from the constant, nerve-changing chaos as the city gifts all of its residents a heightened level of daily stress that impacts the body with every living moment, awake or asleep. It was the girl’s least favorite feeling—a reminder that not only was she capable of leaving the city she constantly defended as the only place she would ever settle, but that part of her also welcomed it, craved it, even. New York had become home, yet she still regularly felt the pull to board the Acela and travel the nearly four hours back to Massachusetts, ready to collapse into her mother’s embrace as soon as she reached the train station’s parking lot. Her wardrobe was almost entirely black and her persona had come to exude Manhattan elitism, but the suburbs of Boston were where she’d been bred, and there was a certain nostalgia to its dense forests and winding streets that she’d likely never be able to shake.
It was even more comforting knowing that her life in the woods was one he had never touched and would never have access to.
NOVEMBER 2023
NOVEMBER 2023
i don’t believe in love
I don’t believe in love, I insist, but I still use my recently divorced parents’ wedding anniversary every time I’m asked for a 4-digit numeric code and I still go on dates with men for the what if potential and I’ve had my wedding planned since I was five because when I think of lasting contentment it’s crawling into bed and reaching for someone I love every night. And I have never blocked anyone on social media because while I believe in closing doors, I don’t believe in locking them, and I perform monologues in my shower because I need somewhere to confess my emotions, even if it’s to a curtain and a stream of burning water, and I write poetry in my sleep because my head is subconsciously filled with it.
No matter how many times I insist that I don’t believe in love, it can still be found in everything I do. I would eat the same three dishes over and over again every day of every week of every month of every year if it meant I got to cook them for the person I love and I have vanilla ice cream ready in my freezer at all times and snickerdoodle cookies in my cabinet and I keep seltzers in my refrigerator even though I don’t drink them solely because I love people who do. I still believe in love because I know how I love, and I know how my mother loves, and I know how my friends love, yet I will continue to insist that I don’t believe in love because I have learned that there are issues which love cannot overcome, and I would rather not believe in love than believe in love and be unable to find someone who wants to fall into it with me.
always
I’ll never get over you and I know that.
Not because I don’t want to—I do.
But because no matter how many years pass,
I’ll still know every address you had in New York for almost a decade
and I’ll still search for your sister’s books at every Barnes & Noble I stop in
and I’ll still look up at the sign for your father’s pasta place every time I run up or down 2nd Avenue
because I know it’s between 73rd and 74th and I’ve memorized all of the flyers in the window.
These have become landmarks in my life,
reminders of your existence because really they’re extensions of it.
I’ll also still know how much you love your head scratches
and exactly how you smell when you wake up and go to sleep
and I’ll still know that you don’t mind it when your feet hang off the end of the mattress
because it reminds you of your childhood and stretching down a twin-sized bed.
And I’ll still know the exact rhythm of your heart when it starts beating faster in your chest
and how it feels against my palm, or my ear, or my mouth,
and I’ll still know how my lips curl into a soft smile when you wake up and kiss me in the middle of the night
and I’ll still know what your voice sounds like when it shakes or it breaks or you’re pushing your words out through tears.
I can tell stories from your childhood even though I wasn’t there.
I could lose every sense but touch,
and if a century passed and you ran your finger down my arm
I would still know it was you.
I will always love you
because I know you too well not to.
Because it’s still,
and it’s always,
because you’re an always.
FEBRUARY 2024
FEBRUARY 2024
at will
And that was when I realized that fate would always conquer free will, because while free will can win battles, fate will always win the war.
MARCH 2024
MARCH 2024
poetry
He doesn’t like poetry, but he did love me, and I don’t wonder if he still does, but sometimes I wonder if he still loves mine.
APRIL 2024
APRIL 2024
almost
And I can honestly say that I’m over you, that I’ve moved on, because it’s true enough, or at least it’s true often enough, but then there are moments when I want to tilt my head back and scream at the sky and pray for a downpour. All I want is for you to acknowledge me, to acknowledge that I exist, that I mattered, that I still matter, because while you can cross streets to avoid me and hide your feelings in other people, I want to be a truth so strong I slip through your decades of defenses, and even if you never call me again, I hope there are days when you almost do.
note — the pieces from February, August, and November 2023, as well as February 2024, were published on February 10th, 2024. The piece from April 2024 was added on May 3rd, 2024.