As it goes, she only ever fell in love with men who reminded her of a Coltrane A-section at high noon. Everything before the brazen sax. Of melody and mahogany. Sir, you are somewhere between Pursuance and I Want To talk About You.
Girl, you funny. I said, I don’t know much about Love On Top but I can tell you all about middle-shelf lovin’. About how this inside joke is an inside truth About not quite. About not enough. About how irritation distorts my face when these catchy, R&B songs play. About how you’ll stretch yourself senseless to achieve some kind of ascendancy. About how fragile things summon disaster when placed on unsteady surfaces such as sleeves. So it’s more mess than magic, really, how I am always able to charm bereft and lonely into some kind of therapy. See, I own my broken, dutifully. Three times over so I never forget. I am this confession. I am this house.
I am this house. No one has been here in many moons but still, I alone have a way of overcrowding the rooms with my own damn hands. So its no wonder my heart often plays collateral to a me who can never keep them still. Always so busy. So many parts to pray back together, in the meantime. So many selves to take inventory of in this ripe almond hue among pots and pans, soap and spoons, dishes and doors; the everyday conversation of clutter.
The everyday conversation of clutter. Negotiating space for a future lover. Him. Two years worth of stars spun into a soon I dared to believe in. I weave dreams for a living and they recognise you as kin. Bet on it. There, in the real, brown and deep of a man. Beautiful. Open heart, willing mouth and steady hands. Let it be known that God makes art in these men. She gathers celestial beings in your name. The angels told me to tell you that each time you speak, the Universe bows its gratitude for the pleasure to hear its favourite song. Oh, glory.
Oh, glory. You are my favourite thing about water. Signs, spirits and seas. A Scorpio and Pisces kind of duality, you and me, and about 14 000km’s of maybe’s in between. You baptised the best goodbye into my body so this woman’s spirit still stretches itself across ocean to meet you. Honestly? Surrendering to memories would taste too much like sinking. But, tell me. Tell me, how do we let them go? These wonders of men who make waterfalls out of women. Questions turned years had settled like dust but were quenched at the rush of the loving, cleansing and healing that kept counsel in your touch. You knew me, moved me and filled me. Spilled into me like new ink. The sort of stain that foretold my devotion. And I haven’t been able to wash you off, since. You cling to me. Like prayer written on brown coloured pages. What bodies tend to have in common with origami. I am a diary. Everywhere your body has been.
Everywhere your body has been. Perhaps, a map. More so, a living reminder. A breathing calendar of dates and times marked by the cold of May and late Autumn sunlight, glowing moons, kisses and hands. Secrets kept by the breeze of sea. And as gravity gave up the ghost to the motions of centuries, making love to you gave me a new way to be in this world. A new way to exist. A new way to inhale beauty and bind myself to the majesty of your peace. A new way to salute the morning and send up prayers to the close of day. I bargained with the sky to keep you just a little bit longer. Please, let him stay. But even clouds will tell you that time keeps its own time and they too make way for its tides. Remember how it rained that day?
It rained that day. Some kind of testament to how our spirits kept no peace as we lay and the sky made no promise to soothe us. There will always be reminders of you in water. Tears tugged my eyes open, wet-faced and sore, I was grateful just for the ability to drape my leg over you and press kisses, steadily into your spine. Once more. One last time. Into your sleeping back, I whispered your return, to me. A hallelujah held between strangers.
A hallelujah held between strangers. An amen shaped like forever. Quiet consequence is kept in the knowing that no good deed goes unpunished. Your absence is a day that I am still learning how to rise for. Something like a saudade.
A saudade. I woke up to my heart shattered all over the kitchen floor of my body. And it hurts everywhere.