I am (or Kujichagulia)

I am

a Black Woman but that didn’t really matter to me til college.

It’s becoming more and more important to me every day.

a lot more self-conscious than most people would ever believe. I hide it well.

young. I’ll turn 20 in 33 days.

a shopaholic who never buys anything at full price. Also,

a scholarship student who spends her money on shopping sprees.

too stuck in my own ways. I hope being a Sociology major will help me see

through eyes not mine own.

addicted to music.

a Princeton student. I don’t necessarily like the way this makes people think of me.

more perverted on the inside than most people will ever know.

an individual who has an apostrophe in her middle name and tries doggedly to ignore this.

deeply conflicted about whether to wear my hair naturally or to iron it straight

but I am entirely unwilling to kill its beauty with chemicals.

also unsure if I like that having an afro is making a statement.

single. Still. But even though it sometimes gets to me I can really say I’m okay with this. Them boys will come around.

unable to sleep with socks on.

a lover not a fighter but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight for what I love.

overweight. I keep saying I’m going to do something about this that usually involves eating cookies.

learning what it means to have real friends and have the best teachers in the world.

going to make it a point to fall more and more in love with myself every day.

Six Degrees of Steparation

I’ll have you know,

today was going to be the day.

Maybe not with heavy quotes like all those

chick flicks and other assorted life-misrepresentations

but it would have been special enough for me.

(I know my passion sometimes scares you,

but I can be surprisingly extra ordinary

in all the ways that count)

-ing the occasional hallway run-ins,

you’re definitely the one I see the most

(Sadly, this is usually at the most inopportune times,

like when I reeeeally have to pee, or on the fifth or sixth

of my eleven steps to the shower, cap- and robe-clad)

It’s funny—

you claim you’re always in your room,

but as today made it a point to prove,

you’re never around when I want you to be

there for me, holding my hand, like you’ve been thrice before.

You listen as much as I talk:

that's never happened to me before.

And I swear you’re the only man in the world

who can make Kansas

sound as interesting as Kenya.

The line of communication from you to me used to be fuzzy

I don’t remember when I started really hearing you,

but I wanna make sure you get this message

me and no one would ever suspect a thing—

you sound so silly and formal in your texts.

We have to take ourselves out of our element

to ever be truly in it. I know it sounds corny, but

what the hell? Amidst deadlines and stress,

I could use a little corny in my life, so

I’ll just say it: you can make the whole world melt away

from it all, we fall

into this mold that makes us somehow more

but never lingers longer than the tingle of my hand

after you’ve let it go. I don’t know if that means we’re

perfect for one another or

we never will be.

Tonight, though, I was willing to take the chance

-s are, I’m making too much of those little moments,

but the way I see it, there has to be something in

the fact that you’re charming

when I least expect it

and even when I don’t exactly understand why,

I can’t exactly cross you off.

Tonight, I was willing to play the fool

if it meant I could find out

my door I went: one to the right, three forward, then to the left

to the left

Six steps separate me and you

and I, or so I thought.

My customary quiet knock: no answer.

With hope, a little harder, but no

such luck—you’re not there.

(It’s time to say I told you so.) I’ll bid my dream goodbye

as I’d have done you, holding just a little too tight,

granting the lightest kiss on the cheek

-y some might call me, and I must admit,

I’m not that regular a girl, and tonight,

if you had opened that door,

I’d have flipped the script on you.

But it seems like we’re just not ready for that, so

two to the right, three forward, and one to the left

to my own devices, I remember what that ambiguous “They”

always says:

There are six degrees of separation between every person in the world.

Maybe there will never be any less

between you and me.

My Best Friend's Wedding

When all our friends and family have settled down,

and even your not-a-baby-anymore sister has turned to look at me, expectantly,

I’ll stand, smooth out the wrinkles in my just-classy-enough-to-not-be-skanky dress, and

clear my throat, preparing to ignore them all and speak directly to you.

Speak now, or forever hold your peace, right?

I’ll tell you that when I first met you, too long ago for me to remember exactly when,

I didn’t imagine there’d even be a you and I, let alone that we

would share so strong a bond we’d challenge customs, you giving me the title:

Best Woman. I’ll make some tired old joke about how that’s all over now that I’ve been bested.

Not that this was a contest—I entered this race knowing I’d never win. I just wanted to be close to you for as long as I could.

I’m sure I’ll tell them that I’ve never seen you this happy.

Inside I’ll be wondering whether or not that was a lie.

I’ll look towards my right, at the one holding your hand, and after everything, I still won’t be able to tell do I want that to be me?

What I will say is that I’ll give him away if I have to, but on one condition:

She must take better care of you than I have. Depending on how much wine/champagne/whatever-the- hell-the-waiters-have-been-carrying-around I’ve had, I’ll speak the truth:

I’ll say, and I quote, “This man right here is the love of my life. If you hurt him, sleep with one eye open—I know where you lie at night.”

She’ll think I was joking.

You’ll think back to those nights in my kitchen, where I turned against my brother to protect my mother’s “other son,” to who rode shotgun and made you get out of the car to leave your first love letter, to who made the family wait to decorate til you were off from work, so you could do the star. You’ll look at me and know I wasn’t.

You’ll look at me and I’ll feel bold enough to keep going…

I’ll conjure up memories of all those times when it was just you and me, alone but for one another, us against the world,

when Mr. Seigel asked me if any degrees of separation were allowed between us, and I told him firmly, “No.”,

every time some blissfully ignorant stranger referred to us as the “lovebirds”, “such a cute couple”,

how we laughed them off me sometimes wishing they were right.

I’ll tell them the story of the night I realized you were ridiculously in love,

rather than just plain ridiculous. How you readily admitted it.

I’ll bite my lip, wondering if now I can say that forbidden word: jealous. Or if that’s not right, then just lonely at the thought of losing you.

I’ll laugh a laugh that’s half a sigh, take another sip of my wine or whatever, and tell them that I still think you’re ridiculous. I don’t doubt it for a second. You’re crazy—and if you’re crazy about anything, it’s her.

I’ll wish that she can drive you crazy in all the best ways, the ways I never could the ways you never let me try the ways I don’t think I wouldn’t have wanted to.

I’ll turn and look at you while I say that last bit. I’ll have worn waterproof mascara on purpose, and you’ll have “something in your eye,” just like the night I left for too long.

I’ll wish you the best this world has to offer, and then some,

say I’m gaining a sister rather than losing my brother from another.

I’ll tell her Sorry to have to break it to you, honey, but we’re bigger than this, him and me. Congratulations.

Reflection

The sun shines down as I swing my feet backandforth backandforth off the side of a bridge made just for them, too small for cars [and in the wrong area too] as Mother once called it, when I was still too innocent to grasp what she’d meant,

“a bridge too low to throw oneself off.” Sitting here I remember her, and the days we used to come swing on the set in the playground that used to be. Now, having only the bridge, backandforth I make-believe.

Swing my legs back solid-side and I lean against the wood, which, caretaker-less, has aged as much as she and I would have, combined.

Peering down into the pond, I see him rushing past the rushes and lilies floating, chasing the tag-playing tadpoles, the dragonfly longing for an answer to his challenge If I squint real hard it’s her looking back at me and

I want to stretch myself reach as far as I can see if she’s real but this gap I know I cannot breach.

The sweat is running and a butterfly threatens to kiss me as the dragonfly’s still begging me to join he can’t understand that I want to soak up every minute with her I can. One of these days I’ll win this staring contest.

Giving up, the dragonfly lands perfectly enough to walk on water rippling through me and myself. Game Over. That which is beyond our control in this swirled world always undoes us distorts us right out of being.

The Writing on the Walls

Aerosol hisses.

A necklace, beaded with paint, streams,

colors lunging for a place to cling.

And if you shook it up right,

the colors won’t drip,

your words won’t melt away to the concrete,

corners, cars, roads, rocks, tracks below.

Calling yourself an artist, you tag your name,

your game, your claim to walls you didn’t build

and would be powerless to tear down.

Artist, your art is a crime, a force to be stopped:

being that bad-ass is unlawful,

and yet you broadcast on every flat surface you can find.

I don’t know what you’re advertising,

but the whole world is your billboard.

Part of me wants to ask you why,

though I believe I should understand the

words that seem random the sketched sound.

Is nonsense the only language you speak?

Am I supposed to get it,

or must I be in the know to know

who you are, Ghost Writer,

how it is you got up there,

and why exactly you wanted me to stand here

caught in this air-dried moment

wishing I could pull your voice out of the wall?

To my Mother, on her Fortieth Birthday

Firstly, get that idea that you’re old out of your head:

it’s funny, but as I get older, you seem to age

backwards. Sometimes you’re the youngest woman I know, a mother

who both teaches and learns, bounces back from her falls, makes me think of music.

As we teeter on the peripheries of these imporant Eras of our lives—I still can’t believe

you're turning forty and I’ll soon be in my twenties, half—bridges to cross, we’re bridging the gaps

between you and me. I call you just as much as you call me,

and when I see your name on the caller ID, it makes me smile.

We laugh, talk about everything from the show I saw in New York

to your new beau—it’s like we’re almost friends.

You and I are still growing, so we change with the times:

I can’t tell you how happy it makes me.

And second I want to say that it’s okay

if you still feel like you’re tryna make it up that hill,

aren’t over yet, because I don’t want this to be your halfway—

I know I joke a lot, but I want you to be around.

And maybe this is unconventional, but next I want to say,

Mommy, I’m just so proud of you.

Whenever times get tough I look at you and everything you do,

And if you can do it, so can I.

A phenomenal woman, still you rise.

Mother to three, you went back to school, and now you want to go back again,

you remind me that it’s never too late to begin:

Just yesterday you told me you were ready to move on,

ditch the drama and start anew—

Mother, I commend you for never letting yesterday trample on tomorrow.

And lastly, Mom, I just want to thank you

for everything—I appreciate it now even if I didn’t then—you’ve ever done for me,

for eliminating mights, cans, and leaving only will,

for being the woman that you are

Strong, Brilliant, Determined, Smart, Funny,

and inspiring me to be the same.

Just look at how far we’ve come:

You say I look just like my father,

but Mom, today and all days,

it’s your image I try to see myself in.

Happy Birthday.

Drunk Savior

I still don’t believe in love at first sight, but you’re the first boy I’ve ever called “perfect” so quickly.
She told me you were a sweetheart, and that if her parents could learn to see past the color-line, she’d
want you for herself.
Since parents never learn, she wants me to have you.
She called you a sweetheart, but I learned long ago that girls lie.

And then I met you.

You called her to ask if I wanted anything.
Out of the blue, no additonal questions asked, no what-would-you-get-out-of-it—reimbursement was
not a condition of your saying, “Okay.”

She told me you were a sweetheart, but still I needed to see for myself.

You called us to say you were driving over, but promised you wouldn’t be driving back—you knew [we
knew] better than that.
Shook my hand as I climbed in your backseat, wishing I were smaller.
Asked me where I’m from, what I do, what I like.

Once we got to the party you gave me mine, a gift—did things right from the start.
And when I’d sufficiently floated away to my happy place, thinking I could grind against the wall, ignore
the fight and it would go away, you were the one to listen to her say the party was over, we had
to get out of her fucking house now!
Temporarily fearless, I wanted to lead the way, but you held me back, saying you’d go first—no one
knew what we’d find upstairs.

The five of us found our coats and left the house, traipsing through the streets in search of the nearest
bus stop.
You were walking next to me, and I announced that I’d like some help with that whole walking thing—
my high heels and I were not getting along—half-truth, half-ploy to get you to touch me, as I
expected that you or someone else would extend an arm, let me lean on you.
Going more than one step forward, you squatted down like it was suddenly the early nineties again and
we were children playing piggyback…you wanted me to mount you, not the other way around.
Laughed it off, but I was touched, and then touch me you did, taking my arm: I was now being escorted.

I thought you were smiling in the picture on the bus, but seeing, later, your funny face made me laugh.

She asked where was her homecooked meal, which in moments became the idea of pancakes at this
hour! the no longer wee hours of the morning.
And despite your state, you sweet-talked our way into your apartment building and got out the box of
Bisquick—my wonderful chef.
Keeping your promise, our bellies were soon full of flour all syrupy-sweet: now we’re too tired to go
back to her dorm.
Hearing, you reappeared: a sleeping bag, a mat, blankets and a pillow—no questions asked.

Two days later on the train, staring out the window-seat as always, the graffiti artists had borned an
unorthodox phrase: next to one another, unmatching scripts, not belonging together but in the
same place at the same time, masquerading [hoping, wishing] as a unit—DRUNK SAVIOR.

Dear Son/Daughter

Today marks three years and still I don’t quite know
whether to tell you I’m sorry, I should have let you grow,

Or if this choice, all mine, was the best—because you see,
dear Son/Daughter, you deserved a better mother than me.

Three years ago today, I kept, at half past noon
the appointment that sealed your—and my—impending doom.

Your father wasn’t there, I was all alone
in the waiting room, debating the unknown.

I was twenty-one, with an apartment, a job, a car,
but no man, and that job was at this run-down bar…

I drink a little too much, that’s what got me in this mess
dear Son/Daughter, would you have been more love or stress?

There were seven other women in the waiting room:
eyes averted, fidgeting hands avoiding soon-to-be-tomb wombs.

Dear Son/Daughter, I saw you once, on the ultrasound machine,
a small spot in the middle of the fuzziness on the screen—

It was never real until that second I saw you.
my eyes began to water, and as if that were his cue,

The doctor told me it wouldn’t hurt, that everything would be okay:
no one explained how empty I’d feel when the knife took you away.

They told me about cramps, bleeding, days missed from work,
but not once did they mention the regrets that would lurk,

Or how every time I saw a heavily pregnant woman, I would sigh
and just driving past Babies-R-Us would make me want to cry,

Or even that now, when I pick my neice up from day care,
I’d wonder what face would have been yours, what clothes you would wear…

But then I think, would this life of mine have been enough?
a commitment like you would have called my unending bluff.

Because I knew I couldn’t give you everything I would have wanted,
I used my right to liberty to take your right to life, which I took for granted.

Yet happiness has eluded me—I hope you found it on the other side:
dear Son/Daughter, please don’t tell me your only chance was the life I denied.

I dress in all black today, asking myself for the millionth time: would morning
sickness have been better than mourning?

Escape Velocity

How fast
Must I flee to
Escape the gravity
Of this rough, hard, damned lovely thing
Called life?

Hard place,
Rock, me between
Decisions must be made
In a strong place that won’t change with
The world.

Quiet,
A cold place where
I see but none see me.
Perfection: green rock, holey not
Holy.

Too cold
To stay out, but
Inside I feel like I’m
Dying; I feel like I’m dying
Inside.

So out
I stay, curled in
Cold, hard, shell-like green stone.
Touching nothing but smooth nothing,
I’m free.

The Whisper

If a tree falls in the forest and
No one’s around to hear it,
Does it still make a sound?
When you whispered under your breath
And hoped to hell I couldn’t hear,
Did that make the words disappear?
No. Every leaf on every branch of every
Tree in that forest shook, so
You can stop pretending now,
Your words, they still shake me.
Mama always said, ‘Watch yo’ mouth,’
And Dad, you always told me to think before I speak,
So if child may play parent for a moment,
I want to remind you, Dear Daddy, that even though
Your lips can move faster than your brain,
You and I and everyone we know has to live with
Those supposed-to-be-silent words every day.
They can be heard, seen, felt in our every relationship,
Everything we say and all the words we don’t,
The sigh behind my smile.
Tabula rasa—I am marked.
A tree falls in the forest and,
Slowly but surely, wishing it didn’t
Remember, roots like nerves are bared to the world
As the very ground begins to shrink away.

Rocks and Shoeboxes

Sometimes I wish the past were tangible,

That I could condense it into a little pebble,

Because, call me sentimental, but the past is something

I’d like to pick up and put in my pocket,

To carry close at hand while I search for a future.

Yes, I’d like to carry my past, stoic and unyielding,

The rock that grounds me,

Around in my pocket for the rest of my life,

So that when I’m scared I could hold it

And remember how I felt the first time he held my hand,

So I could run my fingers across it

And be reminded of how I used to run my hand through your hair,

So I could feel the comfort of every person I have ever loved

With simply the flick of a wrist.

I want the past to be a pebble that fits in the palm of my hand,

And I don’t ever want to let it go.

Because if the past were my pebble,

Then I wouldn’t have been shell-shocked at finding a shoebox full of your old letters,

Because I’d already be carrying around all that joy and all that pain,

I wouldn’t have been brought to tears as I re-read each one,

And it wouldn’t have hurt to throw them away.

If the past were containable and restrainable,

Then mere things couldn’t bridge gaps between years.

And maybe life wouldn’t hurt so much,

If we could hold everything we’ve ever had at one time,

If even the things we’d lost we still held onto.

Though, when you think about it,

The things we’ve lost are the things we hold onto most dearly:

Case in point, this box of letters,

Which it pained me to throw away.

An emotional packrat, I’d already been carrying around all that joy,

And, masked in it, all that pain…

Finding them just brought it out of hiding.

Then and there I realized I wouldn’t want a pebble:

There wouldn’t be room to breathe in between past pleasures and past pains,

Life’s ups and downs would cancel one another out,

Leaving a rather drab straight line.

Maybe living with the past is just as bad as living in it.

We can’t ever have a solid future if the tiniest hint at our past

Reduces me to tears.

And there’s no good without the bad,

So I have to let it all go.

I took a deep breath and overtuned the shoebox into the trash can,

Let out one last sob and closed the lid.

I don’t want to be a rock—

Things that cannot change cannot endure.

I can remember when we sung to one another,

But the sweetest song is the one we haven’t yet heard:

For the first time, I’m going to be brave enough to let

Possibility win out over familiarity.

It’s time to start something new.

The Day We Almost Kissed

Just do it! screams a voice in my head

Here we are, saying goodbye,

And you’re holding me just a little closer

Than just anybody else might

And honestly, I’d miss my bus in a heartbeat

If it meant I could stay here in your arms.

Here we are, all wrapped up in one another’s arms,

And as you run your hands up and down my back,

I think back to a few hours ago,

When those same arms were around my waist,

And I wonder what it means:

Anything? Everything? Nothing at all?

I wonder what this perfect day has meant

And I wanna do it so badly

That I have to bite my lips to keep them to myself.

I can hardly control myself:

I want to kiss you.

In fact, in this moment, it’s as if I

Planned this entire trip just to get to this exact second,

When I could tilt my head slightly and we’d be kissing.

But what if you don’t feel the same?

What if this fun daytrip was just a fun day?

Our friend rolls her eyes at the fact that we’re still entwined

-I’d forgotten we had an audience-

So I guess it’s put up or shut up time.

I relax my shoulders like I’m going to let you go

(A test of sorts)

And you pass with flying colors,

Somehow managing to pull me back and hold me even tighter.

I bury my face in your neck,

My favorite spot to kiss,

And having remembered that we’re being watched,

I dare not stop biting my lips.

I almost wished I could see your face

So I could try to guess what was running through your mind

But on second thought, I was scared to know.

So one last squeeze and goodbye entity

You’re once again you and I’m once again me,

And, equipped with schedules, tickets, and newly-minted memories,

To our lives we must return.

I pretended I could still see you as the wheels got to turning,

And that voice from before,

My heart? got to yearning…

And now we’re off in different directions,

And I count the days til we meet again,

Already labeling this as the day we almost

Became more than just friends,

The day you almost knew how I felt,

The day we almost kissed.

Loving and Leaving

My stepdad used to find himself fucking hilarious

And one of his favorite jokes was to say,

When someone had hurt themselves in some small way,

“Well how about I stomp on your foot?

“Then you’ll forget about whatever else was hurting you.”

I never thought he was funny,

But I think the concept could be used for joys as well as pains.

And I think they lied when they said,

“Absense makes the heart grow fonder.”

For the first few days, more or less,

An absense reigns much more present than a presence,

Missing someone takes the reigns, takes over your life,

And you let yourself sink lower than low.

Til one day you get up, dust yourself off, and resolve that

“Well, at any rate, life must go on.”

And go on it does.

You seek out your nearer friends and loved ones

Who, by being nearer, instantly become dearer,

And they distract you from the hole in your heart so well

That you’d think they had filled it in.

My stepdad thought a big hurt could mask a small one,

I say that a big joy can obscure a huge pain,

And you can let yourself be happy,

Remember how it feels to laugh and smile…

This charade can last for quite a while…

For however long it takes for you to see

The face of the one who had to leave.

Until you hear their voice.

Until they appear close enough that you could reach out and touch them

And you do,

And as your arms slide around one another,

The whole weight of missing them comes rushing back to you,

Knocks you over like an ocean wave,

And you never want to let them go again.

But this fondness resulted from reunion,

Not from the separation itself.

The heart grows weary of focusing on absense,

And love, even from others,

Is a hell of a distraction from pain.

I’d been having such a great time without you

That I’d forgotten how amazing every day with you is.

I can’t believe I never realized how much I miss you,

I never realized til you were right where

All along, I’d wanted you to be:

Til you had your arms around me.

I think the only thing they were right about is that

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

But, though I miss you now, in the end,

I guess we part only to meet again.

The String that...Saved Me?

A manipulator.

That’s what a marionette’s puppeteer is called.

A perfect name for whoever is pulling my strings,

Hidden behind the curtain of my life’s stage, unseen,

In this theatre disguised as my entire world,

I dance when she feels like dancing,

And if he has something better to do,

I lay limp on the floor, crying from the fall.

People come into and out of my life,

Pulling my strings and generally jerking me around.

Who are my friends but the sutradharas,

Wire-pullers, gods of my own little world?

Sometimes I feel it’s the only way we can interact.

Without them, what could I do but lie still on the ground?

I’m incapable of standing my own ground,

Making my own decisions…

I literally need you to move me.

How else could it be?

I once thought they were the strings that would save me,

But these cords that have strung me up,

These ties seem so natural I barely feel them anymore.

My will is indistinguishable frrom your own.

A pawn at your mercy,

I once had dreams of nodding my own head,

Moving my own feet,

Doing things on my own,

Being a real girl,

Pulled by sinew, not by string.

I once had dreams…

Or were they memories?

The Love of My Life: Take Two

We ended.

It was over.

This relationship,

This strange and unexpected love,

The last seven years,

We looked back only to let go.

We ended it,

And, with it, my world,

And you remained remarkably emotionless,

As if it hadn’t meant anything at all.

I guess if seven years had taught you anything,

It was never to believe me the first time around.

Because the words that came out of my mouth,

The “I’m done,

I love you, but I can’t do this anymore…”

They were no match for this hole in my heart.

I knew even then that whether “best” applied or not,

You’d always be the greatest love of my life.

A good friend of mine once told me

That while life may be called some crazy things,

It really just runs in circles,

And if we wait long enough,

We’ll end up with everything we missed.

When you showed up at my store [by chance?],

The gasp, the smile, the desire I had to throw myself at you,

Latch on and stay there for all eternity…

It told me she was right.

I’d spend some time without you

Completely without you,

Had gone through “I can’t live like this,”

“I think I can do this,”

And even gotten to the part where I didn’t miss you every day.

But I would still talk about you in daily conversation

Because everything reminded me of you

And in boredom, I reserted to you…

As I think you did to me,

For boredom brought us baby-stepping our way back to one another:

The world is full of wondrous things,

But nothing as familiar as you and me.

So now we talk a day or two a week,

Catching up with one another’s lives,

Trying to become again something like we once were…

Or maybe trying to become something new?

Trying to let it come naturally again

And maybe we’ll get back to that place where we didn’t have to try

Maybe we won’t

But I’m glad we’re in a place where we can try.

I’m still learning the boundaries,

Testing the waters of an ocean I know so well,

Going slow because I don’t want to fuck this up again

“Ex” is such an ugly prefix anyway:

Thanks for giving me the chance to have a second chance.

The Divorce

Irreconcilable differences.

That’s the official term for this, right?

When we’ve realized we’re staying together

Just to stay together,

Staying together because it seems impossible

To go our separate ways,

Even though we don’t know one another anymore

And probably wouldn’t like one another very much if we did.

You’re not the same person you were

When we started this.

I can’t say that I am, either.

And I like this new me a hell of a lot better…

…I expect that you feel the same

But I don’t feel the same way about the new you,

Nor do you about me.

And we’d thought sheer stubbornness alone,

One of the few things we still have in common,

Could see us through this…

…But it’s just not working.

They say to leave well enough alone,

But what if well enough isn’t enough for me?

Someone has to say enough is enough.

Because yes, you make me happy,

But not nearly as often as you leave me frustrated,

Or as you enrage me…

Just about as much as you send me spiraling into depression.

So is an ocassional high worth all the lows?

…I didn’t think so.

So I already sent you the papers,

Said I wasn’t really sure…

…But included a pen.

And as I waited for you to do something

To either fight about it

(Like we do about everything else)

Or to join me in giving up all hope

And sign,

I thought of how empty it’s going to be,

This house that’s just brimming over with all our memories

Because regardless of what’s going on now,

You ARE my history.

Sometimes…

A lot of the time…

It seems like I just can’t live with you anymore,

But if the tears I just can’t stop crying mean anything,

It’s that all the time

I can’t live without you.

Is it too late to take it back?

To rip the papers up and

Go to counseling

Or just spend more time…

Anything to get to know one another again?

Because there’s something here I can’t let go of,

Something here that just won’t quit,

Even if I try to.

Love, I don’t think I want a divorce.