languid

it's happening again.
a once stable mind
turns to unbeatable blue.
blood runs red,
though feels like it's gray,
skin turns paler
than moonlight on the bay.
movement is heavy,
though so is the rest,
and even in slumber,
there's still weight in her chest.
there's no serotonin 
in this aging machine,
all the fuel pipes are clogging
and there's no room to clean.
her body grows cold,
though she's not left bed in three days,
she's pushing "i'm good!",
like a broken record, she plays.
the sunlight is too bright,
she wishes for a storm,
'cause sunlight leaves her longing, 
but with destruction, she reforms.
the clouds billow 'round her,
in the sky, in her mind,
the rain pours down heavy
for months at a time.
she feels somewhat like she's drowning,
but she doesn't remember how.
she's spent so long down under
that her body's giving way,
she's sinking, but she's floating,
not dying, but exploding.
wishing, begging,
to see the light again.
no, please!
not the tunnel, 
not the light right near the end.
but the tunnel is her home now, 
until sun comes again.

central park

do you remember when we shared a room in new jersey?
we'd go up the turnpike to new york every morning for three days.
it was the first time i'd ever been up there.
it was the first time, in a long time, that i had felt loved, felt happy.
we were only kids, barely teenagers, and you were my best friend.
i had just gotten out of a relationship but you treated me better than she had beyond the third week of dating.
we were in a room with two other girls
and i slept on the floor and nearly froze my ass off by the air con.
i insisted.
you laughed at me, friendly, telling me i was crazy.

we were supposed to go to central park but it started raining.
perhaps that's for the better. i don't know if i would've been able to resist holding your hand.
we managed to score broadway tickets, though.
i didn't sit with you because of the ticket arrangement,
but that's also probably for the better because you would've seen me cry during the ballads.

i think the way he felt when he was singing about wanting to run away,
catch a train to santa fe,
i got it then.
but even moreso now.
new york was sort of my santa fe.
the city lights, the theatricality of everyone and everything,
the whole damn city oozed with it.

back in the hotel that night i refused to sleep with you again.
but god,
oh god i wanted to.
i wanted to stay up with you and whisper about whatever,
i wanted to lay in your arms,
i wanted to hold your hands in mine.
i wanted to take you down to central park,
kiss under the stars and canopies of trees.
i wanted to go back to the city and hold your hand.
i wanted to.
i want to.

instead i laid on the floor and looked out over manhattan,
looked out over the city lights until my eyes were burning,
burning from exhaustion or tears, i might never know.
but that night,
overlooking the city,
veins fueled with the romance of the musical we had seen mere hours before,
i knew that new york was just a physical manifestation of my santa fe.

you
are my santa fe.

a quick goodbye

sometimes i wonder what it would have been like if our goodbye hadn't gone so quick.
it felt like a long time coming, 
like a pot trying to boil on low heat.
but i was too heart-eyed to notice.

we were young, 
i don't regret it.
i don't regret you.
you were somehow the best and worst thing to happen to me.

i still ache,
knowing the girl in my heart
had someone else in her's.
but it's okay,
because you're happy with him now.

i do regret not being able to drive, though.
i can't go to the lake and not think of you, 
even though we only went with my parents.

the good thing, hopefully,
is that it isn't so much you anymore, 
but the girl i'm heart-eyed for now. 

(she doesn't know)
(but you don't know her, so you can't take her too)

i do wish our goodbye could've been,
say,
an hour.
it was a couple months.
maybe from the start.
but time is relative, anyways.