Details, in blue, peach and yellow.

     The inside of my bedroom has three colors. The north and south walls are painted peach. The east and west walls are painted a marine blue. The door is painted yellow.
Why these colors I don't know. What I do know is, I have been inside and outside of these walls for weeks now.This is the first time I've sat down and really noticed a color contrast.
How is feel right now is enlightened.
Where I am right now, is sitting near a window, listening to nothing but the sound of crickets, singing to me from the Salt Lake Valley.
I set my laptop down and move outside, taking a short break from words and snap shot memories.
Lighting a cigarette, I think of the conversation River and I had earlier today.
Ms. River, over the phone she tells me, "You think about me naked a lot, don't you?"
I take a deep inhale, letting the nicotine settle in my blood. I exhale, and remember my response being, "No."
Even the crickets call me a fucking liar.


     Ms. River sits quietly on a couch, turning pages from a paperback book she sits silently, moving her lips slightly with every word she reads. 
Where I am right now is forty feet from a sea of blue eyes, and a wave of soft maple brown hair. 
How I feel is curious. 
Since I've been here, this girl, the one with porcelain skin and a picture perfect smile, has talked to everyone here.  Everyone but me. 
I shuffle my size eleven feet forward, moving closer to her, and her amazing smile and soft pink lips. 
How I feel is anxious. 
Thirty feet.
How I feel is vulnerable. 
Ten feet. 
How I feel is inquisitive. 
As a writer, you need to be charming. You're almost expected to. It's one of those things you carry with you, along with your moleskin notepad and ballpoint pen. 
I clear my throat and think of my best opening. 
Ready 
Set
"Hi." I say. "What are you doing?" 
"Reading a book." River says "For homework." 
I move closer and take a seat next to her on the couch. 
"Do you have a minute?" I ask. "To read you something of mine?" 
Ms. River closes her book and tells me she does. 
What I read, is something out of an old, purple spiral bound notebook. What I read is something written with a black, ball point pen. What I read, is a small segment about withdrawal. 
I read from my spiral bound notebook and tell her, the first thing you do, when writing about withdrawal, is to remember all the details. 
The details of withdrawal are panic. 
Cold Sweats. 
Nausea. 
The details of withdrawal are sleepless nights, with nothing to do but write about withdrawal. 
After I finish, Ms. River tells me she has something she wants to read me. She gets up and walks to a computer, set up on a long, semi circle desk. 
I watch as she moves across the room, towards the printer and the story she wants to read to me. 
The details of Ms. River are graceful. 
Sexy
Confident. 
After only a moment, River sits back down on the couch next me and begins to read. 
Her staccato is short, and simple, but elegant. With every word she reads, she breathes a passion into the air some artists' never do. 
After she's finished, she reads something else. This time a short poem. 
Her words move, one after another with a simple beat that fits perfectly into her structure. 
I tell her I love it. 
I tell her I'm very impressed.
I tell her she should continue to write. 
I tell her she should continue to write and want to know if she wants to do a writing exercise with me. 
Ms. River looks up at a clock hanging from the wall and says, "I think I have enough time." 
The exercise I suggest is simple. We each exchange with each other, one word. Once you receive that word, you write about it. You fit that word into your story, your poem, your whatever you choose to write. You fit that word into the pocket of your heart and let it bleed on your spiral bound notebook with wide margin rule. 
So we each give and get a word.
And we write. 

I flick my cigarette into an empty street and the tell the crickets to fuck off.
On my way back  inside, I think of Ms. River. I think of the way she'd look at me while I was behind her. How I'd place the palms of my hands on her hips.
Maybe I do think about her naked.
Naked. Not naked.
Maybe I just think about River.
Inside my bedroom, I think about the things we miss.
Like walls painted in peach and marine blue. A yellow door you open but never see it's actual color.
The crickets continue to chirp behind me.
Inside the contrasted walls of my bedroom, I look at the notes from my notebook. I think of where I should go next, where I should take this story. I place my headphones over my ears, pick up my laptop, and continue to write.

Ms. River looks up, at the clock hanging from the wall. 
It reads ten minutes to eleven. 
"I have to get ready to leave." She says. "I don't want to, but I have to." 
I tell her I understand. 
Before she leaves, Ms. River tells me we should have a write off. "You bring your A game and I'll bring mine." She says. "Bring it!" Says "Come on bring it!" 
I tell her it doesn't have to be a contest. "We just give each other a word and write." I say
"Bring it!" She says. 
Ms. River looks at me with her cool, blue eyes and says, "It's literally, a literary showdown." 
I tell her that's one fuck of a tongue twister. 
"Bring it!" She says. 
Before she leaves, I hand her a short story of mine. 
Michelle Gallager
It's about a housewife, who becomes so unhappy in her marriage, she self medicates with drugs and alcohol. 
"Handle with care." I say. 
The clock hanging from the wall reads two minutes to eleven. 
River gathers her things, books and pens and a cool composer, and places them in a black, zip up backpack. 
The details of Ms. River are intelligence. 
sarcasm. 
competitive. 
The details of Ms. River are details I write down in my spiral bound, purple notebook. 
Details I never want to forget. 
"Bring it!"

Finally! A Secret worth typing.

     Ms. River sends me a text, telling me she loves me, followed by the nickname, "puppy face"
I grab the remote control, and change the channel from the news, to some show about a man and a woman, surviving in the Malaysian Jungle. Naked. The breast's and the genitals are of course covered by a television filter, but for some reason Spike T.V. has decided to show the ass of both party members. The okay, and the horrible.
Right in front of me on Television.
Where I am is in my living room, laying on my couch, getting ready for bed. I can only think what it would be like with River and I on this show. Naked. In the Malaysian jungle. Trying to survive.
Ms. River would probably be the first one to tell you she'd do the hunting and gathering. She'd tell you I'd stay at the campfire and cook, while she killed and cleaned the game.
I'd probably be the first one to tell you that she'd be telling the truth.
Then Ms. River would stand there naked, in the Malaysian jungle and ask for a point up on the board.           I'd stand there naked and smiling. I'd tell her no fucking way, that this is a proven fact! There was no whit behind it, no creativity, no points. While her buck knife slices through the skin of a squirrel, or boar, or whatever she brings back, she'll laugh and tell me to go "suck a fuck!"

Where I am right now is in a Hospital.
Inside the lobby, I sit down next the only outlet I can find, and plug in my cheap, flip top phone.
What I'm doing is here supporting my roommate, Matt. Over the past week, My roommate's leg has been leaking fluid and pus out of his right shin. This all started from a cut he received while waking into the corner of an open door.
So Matt sits behind closed doors, off limits to myself, while I sit in the lobby of Mountain View hospital in North Las Vegas.
Earlier today, River and I had our first conversation in almost a month. Since she left the place we first met.
For the past three weeks, River and I had exchanged niceties, jokes, flirts, and lately online, via Facebook.
For the past three weeks, we would exchange music and secrets no one else knew.
We'd send smiles and winks, formed from colons and semi colons.
Tales of ex lovers, from the tragic to the forgettable.
We'd do this till Three, sometimes four O'clock in the morning. Never saying how we really felt, about each other.
Until this morning.
For the past three weeks, we would exchange music and secrets no one else knew.
The biggest secret of all, was the simple fact that both of us were in love with the person opposite of the screen from where we were sitting.
Somewhere around Three, maybe Four O'clock in the morning, I send Ms. River a picture of myself.
Underneath the photo, I write as a caption, "I know I've already sent this to you but..."
After a few minutes, River, she writes back "Nope. Must have been some other girl."
I pick up my laptop and move from the couch, to the outside patio. The butt of a Marlboro light touches my lips and I type back, "Nope. No other girls."
I wait a few minutes for Ms. River to respond. I wait a few minutes and look through the thick, cold October air and wonder where Ms. River is, what part of the dark sky she's looking up at. Is she thinking of me like I think of her, right now, this very moment?
My laptop beeps, letting me know I have a message.
"I think I'm going to bed?" She types.
"Why?" I ask.
"Trust issues." She says.
I take a deep breath in. Despite River's frustration and sudden need to end our conversation, a smile crawls over my face.
"I just realized something tonight." I type.
"What?"
My fingers stall. They stop moving and stall and I ask myself if I should really type what I'm about to type.
"That you really like me?" As I  type these words, I say them out loud to myself at the same time.
"Oh really?" She types, "And how do you know that?"
"No reason. Forgot about it." I type.
"Well..." River types, "We can sit here, and you can deflect, and we can play the secret game, or we can tell each how we really feel." She types. "Your choice."
I light another cigarette and breathe in a thick cloud of nervous air. Exhaling a cloud of vulnerability, my fingertips dance around the keyboard.
Secret,
After secret,
After secret,
After secret,
I tell Ms.River the biggest secret of all.
That I am absolutely falling head over heals for her. That I have been since the first day we spoke. Since the first day we exchanged stories and read to each other.
So I sit in the Lobby of a hospital. There for emotional support. There in case my roommate Matt needs someone to drive him back to the house.
Waiting in the Lobby, I flip open my phone and highlight River's name from my contact list.
My thumb presses send, I take a deep breath and I wait to hear her voice...

Cliche's are made to be broken.

     Robert and I sit on his front steps and share a cigarette. This is when he tells me relationships are bullshit nowadays.
"There's just too much fucking thought put in them." He tells me.
"What do you mean?" I say
Robert takes another drag off of his cigarette and hands in back to me.
"I don't know." He says. "Just feels like too much thinking is behind them." Says "Two people should just love each and be around each other and be happy for the time they have around each other."
I take a deep inhale from the cigarette we share, and I think about Ms. River.
I tell Robert I don't think relationships are bullshit.
I sit on the cool summer steps of night, and think of the little things that made River and I. That made our relationship.

Where we are right now is on I-15. Stuck in traffic. Stuck beside idling cars and the stale, bright lights of the Las Vegas strip.
How I feel right now is content.
Where we are right now is stuck in traffic on I-15, and I've never been more content, more satisfied with my surroundings in my entire life.
The fingers of my left hand, curl around the fingers of River's right hand and we sit and smile.
Ms. River picks up her cell phone, and tries one more time to call her friend Elena.
"Her fucking phone's dead." She says.
Her friend Elena is someone we were supposed to pick up 20 minutes ago, which we would of made in plenty of time. If we weren't here, stuck in traffic.
"Fuck it." I say. "Nothing we can do."
I remove my left hand from her hand and run it through the side of her hair. I move in and place my lips against her lips and I tell her I love her.
"I love you too." She says.
I rub my thumb against the side of her cheek, take a moment and become lost in her eyes.
"What do you see right now?" I ask.
Ms. River takes a moment to look forward, towards the stale traffic and stale lights.
"Vibrant essence." She says. 
She wants to know what I see.
I tell her it's not what I see, it's what I hear. I look outside the passenger window and tell her I hear life. I  hear a vibrant city full of life and energy.
Stuck in traffic, I rub my hand through the side of her hair again, and press my lips against hers. A car behind us honks.
River and I both laugh and we move forward, five, maybe ten feet again.
Taking a moment to notice the atmosphere around us, I only realize now the five, maybe ten feet we've moved in the past 40 minutes.
The thing about Ms. River and I, the thing I've come to realize, we can do absolutely nothing, and feel something at the same time.
Forty minutes feels like five minutes. One day with her feels like one hour.
My fingertips rub against the top of her left hand and I think statistically, what a lifetime would feel like feel like, with River and her eyes.
One week?
One month?
One year?
I laugh to myself thinking the only down side would be the way time goes by, I'd be 80,  maybe 90 years old faster than I'd like. I could only hope she'd never have to change my shitty diapers.
I tell Ms. River I love her again.
She tells me she loves me too. She tells me she loves me too but doesn't want to turn it into a cliche.
"Never." I say.
For the past hour, Ms. River and I have been stuck in traffic and I've never been more content. More satisfied with my surroundings.
We've come up on the Sahara exit and Ms. River tilts her car to the right, moving over towards the exit.
Before we turn left onto Sahara, I close my eyes and take a snap shot of the moment we've just shared.
It's never a cliche when you really love someone.
"I love you." I say
"I love you too."
Never.

It's fucked up...

It's fucked up.

Ms. River sends me a text message, telling me she's not going to the beach anymore.
Using nothing but my thumbs, I type in three simple letters, "W,H,Y," followed by a question mark.
She tells me that Patrick is butt hurt because he can't handle her when she's stressed out.
I tell her I'm sorry to hear that.
This is after last night, when Ms. River tells me that her and Patrick aren't clicking. "We're cool." She types, "Just not like that." She tells me sometimes she thinks about me, and becomes sad.
As fucked up as it sounds, a sudden flood of warmth covers my stomach. The poisonous butterfly's, the ones that have been tearing up my insides for the past month, are no longer there.
This was before Ms. River tells me she's no longer going to the beach. This was before Ms. River was hurt and upset. She tells me she has the whole weekend off, and nobody to go the beach with.
For the past month, I've been the cause of hurt. The cause of pain for River. I don't like to see her hurt. When it's someone else that causes that pain, I like it even less.

Where I am right now is standing naked. 

Where I am right now is standing naked, in River's bedroom holding a pillow in my right hand, standing "en garde".
River side steps towards me and swings her pillow down, and around, right into my face.
"Ha!" She laughs.
"That was good." I say. "I think I'll give that one to you."
I swing my pillow sideways, towards her face. She catches it with her hand and flings her pillow up towards my face, catching me right on the nose.
"You fucking bitch!" I say.
All Ms. River can do is laugh.
Again, I swing my pillow. This time down and around hoping to catch her on the top of her head. Instead, she catches it with her hand and flings her pillow back into my face. 
"Ha ha! You suck!" She says. 
How I feel right now is embarrassed. 
Where I am is standing in River's bedroom and doing my best to defend my manhood. So far, Ms.River has landed 3, maybe 4 blows to my face, while I've landed zero. 
This is what we do. This is,one of many reasons why I love her. I love her because I can stand naked in her bedroom, and pillow fight. I can let my guard down and for the time that I'm with her, it feels as if nothing else matters in the world. 
Ms. River grabs my pillow again, and throws her pillow towards my face. This time I catch it and we both stand there, in a stalemate, holding each others pillows. I move towards her and spin her around, wrapping both arms around her. 

I send miss River a text message, telling her that this is fucked up.
"What?" She responds.
In my text message I type out that I was writing about her, picturing her naked. That now I've realized how sexually frustrated I really am.
This time she types more than a one word response. "Has nothing to do with me." She says. Followed by a smiley face.
I tell her it's all her fault. Passing the blame on to other people is my specialty sometimes.
How I feel right now is nostalgic...and a little turned on. I picture River, and her back go me. I picture my hand on her hips, pulling her soft body next to mine. Feeling my hand run through the back of her hair.
River just wants to be left alone and draw.
I grab a piece of paper and write the word "DICK" in black ball point pen. I grab my cell phone and take a picture of it, sending River a text I tell her I have the perfect thing that will cheer her up.
"What?" She wants to know.
"A dick pic." I type. I press send.

.......River gets out of the shower before I do. This was my first mistake. Letting her out of the shower before me. We've only been dating for a month, and my naivety was still lingering among the humid shower steam. 
I grab a lavender scented shampoo bottle, and squirt a quarter size amount of liquid into my palm. 
Not realizing the silence in the bathroom was my second mistake. 
I move my head under a stream of hot water and begin working up a thick lather of lavender scented soap. 
The toilet flushes. 
"Mother Fucker!" I shout. 
River, she just laughs her beautiful poetic laugh. Even when my ego is scalded by hot water, I still love that laugh. 

Remorse

     To think about her, is to write about her.

To write about her, is to ache over her. 

Not to write about her however, would be like to never remember the greatest moments one had in his life. 

I'm sorry I was so careless and reckless with your heart Ms. River. 

Remorse 

River leans over and tells me she as word for me. 

"Remorse." She whispers. 

I stare into her warm, blue eyes and click my ballpoint pen up and down and say, "okay". 

This is part of what we do. This is part of what we've done for the past two weeks. We give each other a word and write. 

Open your heart.

Let it bleed on paper.

Don't be a pussy. 

This is our Motto, our slogan for the small writers group we've formed. 

I place the tip of my red pen to my spiral bound notebook and I write. 

This was the day I found out my Grandmother had passed away. So I write about my Grandmother. 

I write about how when I was six, my Mother had a miscarriage which lead to a nervous breakdown and I went to live with my Grandparents in Minnesota. I write about my Grandma Donna, and the tiny bug eyed sunglasses used for tanning. I write about how she used wear them and walk like a frog in order to make me laugh, to cheer me up. I write about how when I was 13, I spent two weeks during the summer at their home in Ellendale, MN. How we used to pop popcorn and read the "Old Man in the Sea" by Earnest Hemmingway. 

While I press red ink against white paper, I turn my head slightly to the right, noticing River, and her soft porcelain skin and perfect pair of lips. 

I stop writing. 

I stop writing and close my eyes for just a moment and picture my lips pressing against hers. I breathe in a long breath and taste her lips against mine. In this thought, her lips are sweet and soft, as if sugar were gently poured over a soft feather pillow. 

I place my pen back to paper and I write about the time I received my first speeding ticket. I was going 45 in a 20 when I passed a police officer, hiding in a church parking lot. Walking through the side door of our house, my heart was pounding while I showed my Mother my ticket. I write about the time my Grandma Donna came down into my room and told me about the first time my mom was caught speeding. How she was going thirty miles an hour over the speed limit. How when she told my Grandpa and Grandma about her ticket, my grandfather started laughing and pulls out of his pocket a speeding ticket of his own. 

I stop writing. 

I stop writing and turn my head to the right and notice a pair of warm Mediterranean eyes starting forward. I stop writing and take four, maybe five seconds to notice these eyes, but it feels like forever. Before she can turn and catch me staring at her, I turn my head and close my eyes. I close my eyes and take a moment to remember the hug Ms. River gave me half an hour earlier. When she found out my Grandmother had passed away. I think of her warmth. I think of the sweet smell from her hair and the way her body felt against mine, they way my arms wrapped around her. The way we embraced for four, maybe five seconds, but it felt like forever. 

I click my ball point pen up and down and press it back to paper. I write about the last time I saw my Grandmother. It was at my cousin Amy's weeding. I write about how I went into her hotel room to say hello, and she was sitting near a window smoking in a non-smoking room. I write and I laugh because I think about how I tell her that she get fined if they catch her smoking in the room. How my Grandmother takes a deep inhale from her cigarette and tells me they can "fuck off!" She says. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen up and down and press ink against a different type of paper. A paper full of crossed out words and mistakes from the past, and the present. A paper full of holes and questions marks without a sentence to follow. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen and I write about Ms. River. I write about a smile that could stop traffic twenty miles away. I write about a laugh that wakes the sleeping butterfly's from the soft cocoon inside my bruised exterior. I write about shooting stoplights with extended index fingers and marching in circles while holding up makeshift signs. Shouting words like, "No Contract." and "No Peace." I write about dancing in streets while cars drive by and embarrassing moments in grocery stores. Lost wallets and Clerks who look like Hodor. I write about car rides up canyons and passionate kisses under bright stars.
Songs. I write about songs. Snow Patrol, The Decemberist's and Phenoix. I write about Wonderwalls and Why We Fight. 

My right hand moves from left to right and presses ink against a piece of paper unsure of it's future. 

I write about maple brown hair. I write about maple brown hair and how my fingers would trace through the strands of long beautiful hair. How our foreheads would meet while our two bodies became one. I write about naked pillow fights and laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen up and down and press ink against a different type of paper. 

Tonight I click my ball point pen up and down and write about remorse, a different remorse. 

Tonight I write about Ms. River. 

And how I love her. How I lost her. How I miss her. 

Tonight I write about love. 

Reflections

Where I am right now, is standing in front of my bathroom mirror. Telling myself that I am the luckiest man in the world..
My right hand wipes a residue of steam from the glass and reveals a vulnerable face. Through the mirror in front of me, I watch as cold water splashes against this face of vulnerability, watch as it as tiny liquid beads drip from an unshaven chin and on to the white tile counter top.
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror I watch as words are silently mouthed. Words like, "you" and "are" and "So", followed with "fucking stupid".
I grab a small plastic toothbrush from the small drawer below and watch, as the toothbrush enters the mouth in front of the mirror. Small circular brush strokes message a set of teeth while words like, "You" and "should" and "be there",
This face in front of the mirror spits into the porcelain sink below, looks back into the fading steam and makes words like, "She" and "is", followed by "fucking amazing".
How I feel right now, is like a circular balloon with a thin blue ribbon on the end. Instead of Helium, or Oxygen, this circular balloon is full of future, attached to a thin ribbon of hope.
I raise my head and look into brown eyes thinking of blue eyes and think of how much I want to be someplace else. Where I am right now is standing four feet in front of glass and steam residue, in front of a reflection of someone who wants to be somewhere else, someone he loves very much.

Only Words

Where I am right now is wondering where to begin. Wondering where to start and where to end.
It's been ten days since I've last published a new post. So much for continuity.
Since I don't know where to start or where to begin,  I'll say the thing I want to say the most. YOU ARE AMAZING.
Those words written in capitalized letters are probably making you think
Cliche
Probably
Cheesy
You might even think
Sappy.
I look at them and think
Truth.
Plain and simple.
YOU ARE AMAZING.
Where I am right now is sitting in my bed, thinking about you, sleeping next to your owl. Your cute little stuffed owl.
Thinking about how cold your feet get and how you get this look of satisfaction when you place your cold feet on my skin.
Where I am right now is wondering where to begin. Wondering where to start and where to end. What I would like to say is goodnight.
Goodnight.
And I love you.
I love you.