I want my face resting restless against your clavicle

I want to feel your breath leave slow and shallow at the edges of sleep

I want your hand resting restless on my hip and our fingers curled around each other

I want sleep to come upon me, intoxicating

I want sleep to smother me in you

I want sleep to wrap us both, calm

I want your frame to swallow my restless restlessness and wake with you by my side

I wonder if you will ever read this?

You don’t know who you are,

But I do. And you don’t know

Who I am either. Well,

Not really.

You know what I’ve told you. You know

What you’ve pieced together from my stories

Like a jigsaw puzzle. But if I really told you,

If I ever got up the courage. You would like me

Even less.

You don’t know what I’m thinking right now. As much

As that would make it easier. As much as I want you to.

You know my name. That’s true,

But really, what else could I say.

If you knew, would you have wanted me to tell you?

I’m not sure.

You don’t know about the you that I do. The

You that holds my hand and walks on the beach with me and

Makes really good cookies. And if you did,

Well I’m not sure what I’d want you to think.

You see, when I write to you, about you, around you,

I really do want you to read it. But I’m afraid that you wouldn’t know it’s you.

I’m even more afraid that you would.

If you ever did read this, you would probably want to know

That it’s about you. You’d probably want me to write out your name.

An action so simple that all it would take would be a few keys. And

Maybe, I should. But

I’m scared.

Because you…

Well I like you.

And I’m never going to tell you that.

The moment your dark curls bounded away to reveal a steely resolve, I was bought. When your eyes cascaded around me like so many chains, I was sold. You are always there, frozen in memory. You will always be my sweet nostalgia. I will always love you, even when I cannot find you.

Even though you're not coming back.

a,

we tip toe around truths like sleeping monsters. we are unarmed. our words aren't strong enough to act as shields. but we feel like soldiers anyway.

we've become good liars. telling each other our feelings are shallow. that we are only ankle deep in a tide pool.

but this distance is a vast ocean. the deepest black and empty. and loneliness is a careless companion.

my body searches for you endlessly. throwing signals out like echolocation. heartbeats bounce across states like voices through telephone wires.

and never reach you.

how do we navigate, now?

I never learned to swim. my lungs are half filled with water and useless. I would tear them from my chest. offer them to you on flat palms.

a heart cannot beat without oxygen. you make it easier to breathe. and I haven't tasted air in months. so,

look harder.

use a flashlight, a.

and find me.

Dear ______,

By keeping me in the (I hate this term)Friendzone, you have taught me what love means. I cannot imagine what would have happened if you would have given in and taken me out on a date if your heart was not in it. I can no longer feel anger towards you or towards myself regarding all of this. I have said before that anger was a mostly useless emotion, and now I will tell you why: it’s blinding. It has closed my eyes before and I will not let it close them again.

Here’s the truth: I am not yet ready to move on. I don’t think I’ll be able to until our friendship fades, which is hard to swallow, but I just can’t see you as more than a friend. I hear your voice and my heart leaps- it leaps, ______- and I cannot force it back down. When I first told you I had feelings for you, two Springs ago, I assumed that if you didn’t like me back I would just stop having those feelings. It’s laughable now, but I have always been such an insufferable idealist, though it’s not just about hope.

Allow me one last extended metaphor:

When my feelings began to take root, I assumed that they were only pesky weeds that could be easily removed. So I ignored them, until I looked over and they had grown into a sapling; I couldn’t pull it out with my hands. So I brought out a shovel to remove the pesky thing, only to discover that it was beautiful. I left it, hoping it would get easier to destroy it as time went by, but soon I began to enjoy its shade. I discarded the shovel and the axe and all of my fears and climbed to the top of its branches, and ______, the view was magnificent. It made me see everything in a new way. My garden was larger than I thought, and all the love I have ever felt blossomed continuously around my tree. Surrounded by all of this life, I felt less alone; depression visited less often, stayed for shorter periods of time.

But my tree is still fragile and cannot survive on its own. I have tended to it, almost out of habit, for the past two years; I have known no other way. Eventually, though, I will begin to wander away from this beautiful tree. It will die silently and without complaint as I plant new gardens.

When I happen upon it again, I will discover that it has lost its leaves, and immediately I will know what that means. I will mourn it, trying to remember what it once looked like in full bloom, but I will not stay near it; the memories of it will hurt me too much. And as I am sleeping in the branches of a new tree, I will hear a soft thud in the far distance. It will echo in every chamber of my heart; the last bit of love I had for you will leave my body.

But it’s no use crying now, or imagining that endings are permanent or set in stone. I’m not there yet- the tree of my love is still full of beautiful green leaves. Just as I’ve said after all of my letters to you:

The story continues on.

With blossoming love,

_______

Thank you.

When you grabbed my arm and spun me around, cupping my face with your broad hands, I found out what passion was really like. Fire coursed through my body, and I realized that with him, I felt cold.

When you begged me to come back to you after I drove away, I knew what it felt like to yearn for someone again. I raced like the devil was on my heels just to feel your body on mine.

When you took me into that meadow after we snuck out and made me feel that burning again, I knew that I needed more than he could ever give. Thank you for caressing my body in a way that made every hair on the back of my head stand at attention.

When you made an excuse to come see me alone while I was napping, I understood how powerful desire could be with the right person. We were drunk on lust and short on time, and it was the most thrilling experience I had had for years.

When you broke my heart by pulling away and losing interest, I knew that I could never go back home to a loveless and faithless relationship. It hurt more than you would ever know, but I came to appreciate it.

Thank you for awakening in me something that I didn't realize I was missing. Because of you, I was reunited with the one my heart truly wanted. You led me into the arms of a man who wants me like you wanted me, but who loves me like you couldn't. I am forever grateful.

Formerly Yours,

The girl you didn't want enough to live in a yellow beach house with

P.S. Thanks for telling me about the beach with the wild horses. I think that he and I will go there someday.

I sat directly behind the Maker

who was seated at the entrance

of a hole that we had

both found in the wall.

At our right there was a presence

of a person bathed in shadows

who was watching us

as we performed...

...The Maker was a greying man

with a white beard, and bald

head, but he was playful...

...He was recording the World

through this hole,

and I was recording Him

recording the World

through this hole.

Earlier when I had found this

hole in the wall

with his help (though he was

not seen) a child immediately

plunged himself through,

and I had heard a cry

from somewhere, like a person

had dropped a plate, and

it had shattered

into a thousand pieces...

...the child threw her arms at

me, flailing as she did,

and I helped her through

the hole, so she may join me

in this strange room

that I had had to espy

with the help of the maker

in order to detect the hole.

Outside our hole there was

a great feast, and people

were laughing, and carrying on,

and I knew my Love was amongst

them, and I knew I would

see her soon, but for now I

must remain inside

the strange room with the child.

From these thoughts I had

returned to my place

without the child, and behind

the Maker, and with his tools,

and with my tools we continued

to record the World,

and I asked him questions

about what we were doing,

and through his actions

I acquired a great knowledge...

...at one point, in order to be funny,

the Maker dropped his pants

and said,

“Look we are screwing each other,”

And we both laughed,

because it looked that way

from how I was positioned behind

him,

and the shadowy stranger laughed

as well...

...it was all in good fun,

and then we returned to recording

the World.

It soon became the night,

I could hear the birds flapping

against the house,

it was the sound of the veil

of night being plunged down

around us,

and we were still recording all

that was heard, though it was night

and I missed my Heart and Love who

lived outside the room so much,

and so I willed my body to sleep,

and I willed my spirit to leave the

body as it continued to soak in

lessons, and I went to her, and

laid with her, and we made a

multitude of spirit children

who floated without feet

above us as we slept...

...I then laid my lips down

upon her, and she opened her lips

to mine, and in an instant

I was back in the room,

but this time she was in

my arms,

and the Maker was her,

and the Maker was I,

and we wept because we had

both found our way inside the

strange room,

and then I saw a bundled

child in her arms,

and I knew all was good.

©

4/30/19

Bunny Villaire

the art of giving is 

in the silent 

unsuperfluous "k—"

hidden... 

that extra special 

attached

to the ever generous,

"now," like a kiss—

sound that seals

and makes acceptable

the entire gift,

in whole and in piece

addressed to the Who

that apprehends in thanks—

all there really is, to "no,"

with double jointed arms

that open, instead of fold...

like a partner, variable and

formulated as shown—

the too ambiguous other

character n...

in whose shoes to be candid

any figure can aptly stand

but then again...

there is only 

you—

and your mirror...

to receive in silence

"o!" the thing 

desired...

yet immaterial—

the unenunciated

secret tied in black

satin ribbon...

it’s been two years.

i kissed a guy the day after you broke up with me,

a vain attempt to hide the pain.

i told him something was bothering my eyes,

but the tears were for you.

i thought it would get better with time,

so i slept with random guys,

and i kissed with even more.

i became an expert at creating an alibi for tears.

as much as i tried to,

the alcohol only numbed my mind,

not my heart.

as much as i longed to,

love was always mocking me

with your eyes.

they told me they loved me,

and as i said it back

i imagined that you were here

instead of strangers.

it’s been two years.

but every time something funny or sad or happy happens,

the first thing on my mind is to tell you.

and then i realize.

you aren’t here

anymore.

i love you,

but just like with all my lovers,

i am beginning to realize our love

was one sided.

Have you ever wished on a dandelion and, while watching the white seedlings scatter, hoped that at the end of your breath there will be none left attached? I have. Because, of course, my wish will only come true if I blow the seeds out all in one breath. Then, if I see there are one or two which didn’t let go, I wonder in fear. Will my wish still come true? Surely the universe or whatever power which dictates wishes on dandelions won’t discriminate because I failed to blow out every seed.

Then I think So what if it doesn’t come true? Will I be okay without it? Or will I be crushed if my wish is denied? But perhaps it’s something I actually don’t need, and I can let go.

This is my analogy for how I feel when I think about you. Because, after all the effort I put into wishing for you, surely you won’t be kept from me based on some universal technicality or any minute failure on my part. Yet, I have no assurance that after all this time you will actually start to love me. So, like when I contemplate those two seeds jeopardizing my wish’s possibility of coming true, I wonder in fear…

Then I start to think So what if you don’t realize I’m the only girl in the world? Will I be okay? How heart-broken will I be if you simply move on? Is it possible that your love isn’t what I need and that I ought to let go?

Have you ever wished you had a direct line to the power which dictates the granting of wishes? I have. I wish I could ask for a clear description of what exactly I can expect from wishing, and what it is I get myself into when I hazard the thing called hope.

My dear, what shall become of my hope?