Under the bridge

Perpetually I seem to remember
the day that we went under the bridge.
It was a sunny Monday,
strategically we went,
leaping from rock to wet rock,

celebrating because
every moment together
was a recess from reality.

I wore the brown boots, 
the one from our first date.
In the middle of the river,
you gave me your hand
and pulled me close.

You held me, 
and I held you back.
We stood in the wind,
resisting the current,
beating time.
I was safe,
and I was free.

As we kissed,

I remember wishing 
that someone was taking our picture.
That maybe somehow,
someone could capture

the adventure you gave me,
the beauty you activated in me,
the way my soul lit up around you.
That maybe-

(you felt it too)
we were going down in history.

And we were.
We were.
And now
that I know it,
it is too late.

This-

This is how I will choose to remember you
You, perpetually tapping
You, in the rear view mirror
Your quiet energy, your sweet persistence,

How I was a diamond in your world of playground rocks.

I will remember you with your skinny waist,

I will remember your suede promises,

the lightning of our first embrace,
all the way to the edge of desire.

Your body in the back seat,

the way you taught me and

our perfected chemistry.
You, my best friend,
my only one.

I will remember you in grocery store parking lots,
on Denver sidewalks,
the volume of your snaps,
you on top of the Space Needle.
I will remember you in your element,
and when you met me in mine.
I will remember you on every long drive,
every mountain pass, through tears,
craving you to make my brain feel quiet
one more time.

Because you,
you remind me of home.
I know because I loved you first,
I could love you forever.

So I don't know how to stop.
I don't know how to stop being innately me.
I don't want to.
Please,
don't let me go,
don't let me go,
don't let me go.

Because I love you,
and I can't.

Still,
I search for you nightly,
And wait to stop shining
until I see you meet the coast,
or at least until
the sun comes up again.
When it's time,
I wait for you in between breaths.
I wait for you where the needle meets the vein.
I wait for you like you loved me,
across every galaxy.

I'll never ask for anyone but you.
I ask, and I ask again,
but it is
and I am
too late.

I cannot be close, it breaks me, and
I keep my distance.
Heartbreak was a foreign word,
till I was loved by you, and
I need you to come translate for me again.
I need your voice to 
unlock all the love that's trapped in me.

Only when I am far away,
From far away,
That is where I choose to remember you.
I will remember us under the bridge.
Before we lost our footing on wet rock,
Before we drowned.

Because if I put you there,
under that bridge,
then I cannot remember you
in all of the other places
where it still hurts.

To you who know

A letter,
 to you who know:

I know, 
you know,
and I know you know,
and you know I know you know.
At this point
it does not matter to me
how you know
or why,
so don't state it
because,
you don't need to.
Just walk with me
and understand
that my right now

is like this:
it is dabbed in fog,

composed of all the black

and white

heartbreak.
It is dark,
and I am tired.

But I'm trying,
please believe me.

I'm trying to reclaim my life,
fight for my identity,
capture the light,
and take back what was stolen.

But I'm fighting a battle
that in many ways,
I have already lost.
I often meet

crippling self-disappointment

that demands to be experienced,
without an invitation, 
in more ways than one
mind you-
echoing the memory
to replay and rewind.

Why is so much of healing

remembering?

I know it.
There is shame 
in the lack of movement,

the absence of screams,

the voided fight,
the prevented memory.

It's like,
an unbalanced magnet
pulling instability
across its charges,

poisoning autumns,

toxic to what was.
Inverse to irritable,
and retrograde to frustration.

What you can know is this:
I am fighting ghosts 

and slammed doors

and far worse-- 

the ones left open
on purpose.

Gently it calls 

every failure by name,
and gives it bones.
Through every unspoken thought,

past each wavering hesitance,

each immortal glance that
we tried to kill
and told ourselves was dead.
If I forget,
it's still there.
It's still alive.

I am desperate
for some mask

like consistency

or value

or community
or substance,

because sometimes

to be numb

somehow 
takes everything in you
when you've already been robbed dry

So stop,
now, please,
I beg.
Stop celebrating,
quit it with your playbook.
Be patient in my lament
for my disgrace.
Because my grief
is not
your trophy
or your soapbox
or your muse.

I AM SORRY
and don't say it isn't my fault,
because we both know
that's not the whole truth.

What is true, is that
I don't want the world

and all of its cruelty

to make me jaded

and hard,

but sometimes

I fear 
that it is already
too late.