#callmelost

[callmelost]

i sit with my grief at the dining table. she follows me to the couch after a long day and cups my cheeks in her cold hands. she nestles behind me, almost invisible, as a friend is near, and yet like a shy cat, reappears once they’re gone. my constant shadow, my tear-stained cloak. i never made you that cornflower blue vest.

[callmelost]

bloody longing

I routinely escape to where I can feel you next to me breathing. simple inches on the grass and I must not break the spell of your presence. I need you to bite me to shreds, I need you near me, I need, I need. my jaw will break and my bones will crack and I’ll wilt like a flower and you’re the fresh scissors to fix me. your hand is warm in mine but I need you to crush it.

[callmelost]

A Burst

Maybe it was how she had this tainted smile as she spoke to me and how I could never face down a challenge. We chased each other headfirst down streams of tears and regret, outplay and outlast. Her voice always choked when she spoke of him, but I paid no mind because who was he if he was not with her and I was with her. The world at our feet and armed with creativity to last. I should have seen how her colors faded and the notes weren’t quite in tune, and how she would come home late at night and not smile at all. The first time her voice stayed strong when she spoke of him was the last night of ours. I still see her wiggling eyebrow in the patterns of puddles on the sidewalk and the way couples will ignore their decay. But words that have meaning have left their meaning abandoned in parks and cities and I cannot reach them. How did it feel to love?

[callmelost]

Burning Stars

I took a swig from the almost empty bottle we stole. I didn’t bother to look at the name of the drink, and now my eyes weren’t cooperating.

She was almost asleep. The blanket was hers — she had found it inside her car from years ago and it was almost entirely eaten by moths. The pool glittered underneath the stars and somebody turned out the lights hours ago.

I set the bottle down and stared at her. “Hey, wake up.”

“Hmm?” One eye opened and she glared at me annoyed.

“Your brother’s gonna kill us.” I shake the bottle for affect which garners a chuckle.

“Yeah, but I can blame the glass on you,” she smirks. I lay down next to her on the moth-eaten blanket and she turns onto her back. We sit in silence for a few moments.

“Do you think the stars burn?” I gaze up at them as I say this.

She turns her head and stares at me. “Yes, I do.” I stare back at her. “They have to, in order to be seen.”

“Makes sense.” I twist back to the burning night sky. The concrete underneath me feels warm. “Wonder what it’s like up there.” I look back at her, but her eyes have closed again and she breathes peacefully. I sit up and grab the bottle again.

It was then that I knew that I would follow her into the heart of one of those burning stars. Even if it was just to turn to ash. I take another swig and drain the bottle.

[callmelost]

Antiques

Once, when my grandparents came to visit, we went to a World War II-era museum. The place was filled with canned foods, posters advertising victory gardens, and general household goods.

My grandfather pointed out a train set to me. “I had one just like that.”

My grandmother told me about her mother’s pantry and all the differences between hers and the one on display. 

I had thought the whole affair to be silly. They were alive back then, so why do they need to see this now.

But looking at their faces, and seeing my grandfather’s wet eyes, I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to see items from your childhood framed like oddities.

What they were feeling — I did not want to know.

[callmelost]

pull down my clothes

i need you to want me

trace the line of my spine

and grip my waist with one hand,

the other’s in my hair

show me what it’s like to be touched by you,

to be touched at all

i want your breath on my skin

my lips on your chest

please, stay warm with me

please, stay

please

[callmelost]

I’ll keep on keeping on,

even if I wait forever.

My mother says, divide your hunger,

but it tastes better together.

Like waffles and honey,

like toast and like jam,

I’ll wait again until summer,

when there’s time in my hand.

I’m nursing this private dream,

that rises like a cloud.

Once spoken, the spell is broken,

and I’ll be cut with doubt.

[callmelost]

The painting, Young Girl Reading, was not painted by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. It is not in a museum. It was painted by my grandmother and hangs over her dining room table. The features delicate and her fingers like needles.

I am six years old and she is the most beautiful girl in the world. I watch her while I’m sitting at the white tablecloth, Houses of Parliament at my back. I reach for a pomegranate, on the table and in the still life, and my grandmother cracks it for me, her brushstrokes shaping my world.