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.

The Minutes

Sometimes we expect someone to be available at all times. Then we forget we're lucky to have it.

How is feel right now is lonely.

Where I am right now is far away from where I really want to be.

Usually, between the hours of ten and two, my inexpensive flip top phone is in the palm of my hand and my hand is up next to my ear.

Usually, between the hours of ten and two, the voice on the other end of the phone is Miss River. In between laughing and talking about books or making sexual innuendos, I'm telling her I love her. Usually.

Tonight I look at the digital clock and it tells me it's 12:21

It doesn't move. It sits there on the bottom right hand corner of my screen and has two sets of 1's and two sets of 2's and doesn't move.

What I am doing right now is missing Miss River and our conversations.

It's funny, sometimes we take for granted the voice on the other end of the phone.

Where I am right now, is standing over a small pond of full of memories, flipping borrowed time into crystal clear water, wishing I could go back and change things.  

The Funny Thing about Love 09/17/13

Where I am right now is in bed. A bed with a slender arm draped over my chest while I type. Miss River's arm.

How I feel right now is empty. Like the world has been sucked out of my insides. From my stomach to my chest it's been sucked out and there isn't anything in the world that can stuff it back in.

What I feel is pain.

What I feel is Grief.

What I feel is the need to crawl into a dark corner and breathe and pretend that everything's going to be okay, and I don't know if it will.

Why I feel this way is simple. It's simple because I fucked up. Plain and simple I fucked up.

If you're still reading this, what you may feel in the next sentence is irony.

In less than six hours earlier, stopped at a stop light, Miss River tells me she doesn't want to be with me anymore.

Like I said, I fucked up. Now instead of crawling into a dark corner, pretending everything's going to be okay, I find myself missing her, missing River and wishing I could take back everything I never said, and say it. 

The one thing Natasha knows about me, the thing she always says at always the right time, I do a fantastic fucking job at deflecting questions I don't want to answer.

Under the pale, grey moonlight of the stale Nevada sky, Natasha wants to know how I feel about love.

I place a Parliament Light cigarette to my lips and light the end with a orange bic disposable lighter.

"Love?" I ask "I don't know." I say "That's a good question."

I take a smooth and steady drag from my cigarette and exhale and fill the dry Nevada desert with Carcinogens and Carbon Monoxide and tell Natasha that "Love can mean many things."

I deflect

"Are we talking about the love one has for a Brother, or a Sister, or a Mother or a Father."

I deflect

"Are we talking about the kind of love one has for a best friend?"

I deflect

"Are we talking about the kind of love one has for a movie? A video game? A car?"

Natasha touches flame to cigarette and tells me to just answer the question.

I deflect

I ask Natasha, "What about you?"

"What about me?" She asks

Where we are now is outside. The air we breathe is cold, especially for September, especially for Las Vegas. I curl my right palm around my left arm and my left palm around my right arm and let my cigarette dangle from the corner of my mouth.

"Love," I say "What are your thoughts about it?"

I deflect

Where I am right now is sitting under the pale and grey moonlight, smoking a cigarette and filling my lungs full of reservations and uneasiness for the truth. The truth that lies behind Natasha and her question. Where I am right now is sitting on a cold, aluminum patio chair and I'm lost in her Beautiful Ocean Blue Eyes and I hide myself from how I really feel. About love.

Natasha lifts her head towards the pale moon and the dark Nevada sky and she tells me, "It depends on the person." She says

Natasha places her cigarette back to her lips and inhales and exhales and says, "For me, love is simple." She flicks the tip of her cigarette on the edge of an ashtray and says, "It's all about understanding and accepting someone for who they are and having someone understand and accept you for who you are."

Where I am right now is on an outdoor patio of the Las Vegas Recovery Center, smoking cigarettes and loosing myself in beautiful Ocean Blue Eyes. Thinking of the simple clarity, about a mutual and understanding love. Thinking of how simplistic it isn't to answer such a simple question.

The funny thing about love, is the simple fact that it's both Tangible and Intangible. It's something you never touch but always feel. It's a smoke, full of carcinogens and carbon monoxide that fills your lungs full of butterflies and warm vulnerabilities.

It's the unexpected cool September air, carrying romance through thousands of fragile blood vessels, straight to our fragile and hopeful hearts.

The funny thing about love is that everyone tries so hard to find it, even when it's two feet away.

Where I am right now is outside. Wishing I had something to say. Hoping I had something to offer. Thinking I have nothing to give. I press the last of my cigarette into the ashtray in front of me and tell Natasha I think she might be on to something. That she might be on to this thing called love.

Natasha lets a trail of smoke trickle from her lips and says, "Thank You."

I grab another cigarette and pull it from the flip top box and for the next ten minutes Natasha and I stare at the pale moon above the calm Nevada desert. We inhale old memories and exhale old lovers and look at the bright stars as they poke through the black blanket of night.

Natasha's phone vibrates twice and reminds her that she's late.

She says goodbye and walks away while a trail of smoke separates into the cold September air.

The funny thing about love is that it always leaves an answer after an answer is no longer needed. The funny thing about love is that it comes and goes and inhales and exhales and lives and breathes and vanishes, into the cold September night, under the grey, pale moonlight of the Nevada desert. The funny thing about love is that it never leaves. It's simple and accepting and understanding and it never leaves but it always says goodbye.

The funny thing about love is, love.