rock bottom

(her name) found levity at the bottom of a bottle and now she sees its time to cut the threads – however mystical and lovely they may be – release and move on. But today is not that day. And every day I keep begging the warden for one more unjust reprieve from all the things I write for the better man who never gave excuses and never asked me to be rock bottom.

i am happy.

to the person who found this blog searching “Amelie I know you’re feeling happy,” rest assurred, dear searcher, your hunch is correct.

breezes.

Until, one winter day, a sly wind blew in from the North.

to clyde

Dear you,

Are you receiving my transmissions from outerspace? Is your radio dialed in? I hate mustaches too! I’d consider eating asparagus with you. And even though I’d never throw the monopoly game so you can win, I’d happily help you heist the the monopoly bank and let you call me Bonnie.

Love,
Me.

letter to an ex-lover from long ago.

I no longer love you.
I realized today.
In a station of the metro
you were just another flippant conversation about untimely weather
as a cello played somewhere in the distance.

winter song.

I’m writing you nightly notes, these days
the ghost of Bukowski on one shoulder
Williams on the other
the room smelling faintly of soap and gin.

By the end of the night we’re all the same
punchdrunk on words running off the page
dripping, pooling – faster and faster
puddling between the shotglasses and spectacles
trying our best not to think about
the plums in the icebox
you were saving
for breakfast
as we kneel
before the tigers
who will not let us be.

The lights go on,
I tremble
armorless
as white petals, adjectives, and applause cascade to the floor
before we stand before all of Rome before the fall of Rome.

The gates raise
expostulation gives way to acquiescence
beside me I hear William’s faintest sigh
and Chuck brazenly announces
“At last
the tigers have found us
and we do not care.”

we laughed and felt happy

I have never felt so certain that destiny exists as I have in the past few months.
I want to make memories with you.
I have never felt as uncharacteristically like this as I do.
I know not where this desire comes from,
only that it arrives from a place inside of me I’ve never met until I met you.
Near the center, a little to the right, with the clearest voice.

It has collected every piece of advice I’ve ever received
from each person who has ever loved me…
When they said:
One day you’re going to meet a man who,
without knowing how or when or why,
is your best friend.
He’ll be someone who challenges your mind,
someone who makes you laugh,
someone who not only makes you a better person,
but inspires you to want to become the best version of yourself you can be.
He’ll see right to your core,
you’ll feel exposed and vulnerable,
but you’ll never feel scared.
One day you’ll meet this man
worth waiting for.
And if you’re lucky
spend the rest of your life appreciating
that you waited for this right one.
Instead of just anyone.

I dreamed of you shortly after meeting you
the man who rescued old books
before setting sail for middle sea
throwing them out above the waves
turning them into seabirds
who soared above us
and we laughed and felt happy
making seagulls and pelicans and snowy plovers
in your little boat.

Not long ago
I dreamed you herded sheep
and I came to photograph the best sheep
of all your sheep
to a little hillside somewhere in Scotland
beside the greenest field
and we searched all day for that missing sheep
before finding it in the fields of rye
and we laughed and felt happy
uncovering the secret hiding spot
on your little hillside.

Finding you was like discovering fingers and toes
though I don’t remember that long ago
As long as I have known (yet have been so unaware)
you are now, you’ve always been
and always will be.

I like you more than all my appendages and most major organs
I like you better than long weekends and sno-cones in july
I like you better than pumpkin carving and palindromes
I like you better than birthday cards and more than fruit
I like you better than hosta leaves and first pick of the cinema seats
I like you better than thunderstorms and sunny days when they predicted rain
I like you better than peanut butter and jelly cut on the diagonal
I like you better than cello solos and every coin wish in the bottom of the Trevi Fountain
I like you better than the thesaurus and dictionary combined
I like you more than 1.618

It is cowardly that I say these things in this way.
But I won’t hurt you and
I can’t hold onto all these balloons.
So I release the SOS
and one day, maybe, when we’re old or young
when we’re happy or sad
you’ll find them
and know
if given the choice between you
and Orion’s belt
and sun tea on the front porch
and a texan bluebonnet field

I choose you.

the things you have yet to learn.

At least one a day I think about a sentence from a conversation we’ve had and I smile a sort of uncontrollable, inspired, unrestrained smile I haven’t felt or seen in years.

The more I know about you, the more I want to know about you. That’s why all the questions.

You make me feel awkward and nervous and excited and giddy like I haven’t felt since junior high.

On weekends, usually around 11:13 am or so, I wonder what you’re doing. Especially on sundays.

When driving and listening to the radio, I wonder what tune is running through your head at that exact moment.

I sometimes think about what it would be like to sit on the front porch at night in july together. Or anywhere in comfortable silence.

You make me want to learn at least one new word a day.

You make me want to be a better person.

I don’t become easily enchanted. So I’m not sure how it happened that all of the sudden I came to and realized that I have arrived to be enchanted.

I spend a great deal of time each day trying to focus my attention to the matters at hand and away from the matters of your hand (wondering where all the places where the lines and maps on your palm would lead…)

Since meeting you I try to pay attention to the minutia of music production, but still have no idea what I’m listening for. I still either like it. Or I don’t like it. But I’m trying.

You give me butterflies and goosebumps. Sometimes both at the same time.

You sometimes make me so nervous and I can’t stop talking even though my inner voice staring in horror and saying “oh my god i order you to stop talking!!!”

I’d take cross-country car trips with you so you didn’t have to go it alone. But I might want to stop to see a statue of alligators or the world’s largest frying pan.

I’d like to leave with you for two weeks with no planned destination and see what we discover. Because I think we’d have just plain fun.

When you show up in dreams, you always seem so familiar, and I’m always so pleased to see you.

One and a half blocks never seemed so far, or so close.

You are one of the smartest people I have ever met, and I have never felt more intellectually attracted to a person in all my life.

I feel shocked that I lived 27 years in the same world with you without knowing you.

I was never sure that I believed in fate or destiny or soul mates…
and I realize that my timing couldn’t be worse, but
I never expected to feel like this about anyone
though I haven’t really put my finger on what “this” is.
I never expected to like you.
For a variety of reasons.

But I was wrong.

And here I am.
And here we are.
And all I really want to do
is pack one blanket and
two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and
two books and
go wherever the lines of your palm take us.

bewilder.

you.

If you go too far,
there is a song you’ll hear.
If we get too close,
whisper in my ears.
speak the word
(say it.)
Bewilder,
(say it.)
Hummingbird.
(say it.)

oh we’ve been to many churches
but we never believed.

three o’clock

I do not know you.
or whether you prefer buttercups
to peanut butter cups
I do not know.

I do not know you.
I cannot recognize the contents of
the trunk of your car
or the contents of the baggage
you carry.

I don’t know you.
I don’t know you.

Moving like images
on opposite sides of a mirror
I go left
you go right
and everything is aligned.

but I do not know you.

I do not know you.
whether you sing in the car
or you sing in the shower.
If you write letters on post-it notes
or in the steam on the mirror.

I don not know you.
whether you talk more in the mornings
or late at night before you fall asleep.

Then stepping outside of myself
I’d pose a warning
whispering things like
be reasonable
be fair
be a decent person
beware.

And the me inside me
she never listens
though she hears all
she’s much too busy
dreading three o’clock.

This is not me.
This is not me.
This it not me.
This is not me.

This is the undertow.