Monday, January 21, 2013

Faded intimacy.

I am the bobby pins you find in corners of your room that seemed empty and clean yesterday.

I am the color of the walls in your bathroom with uneven strokes and gaps of white. I am the lavender.

I am the dent on the right hand side of your mattress whose dip cannot be undone after four years.

I am the rickety glass table we got from Ikea and put together and had dinners at when I would actually cook.

I am the the deleted pictures of us from the picture frame still likely displayed in the living room.

I am the faint stain on the underside of the middle cushion of your couch that came from a from the perfect first date story.

I am seltzer and ice cream and half eaten chocolates and gin and Keurig coffee and five different kinds of cereal and Awake Tazo tea.

I am the way I folded your shirts and paired up your socks.

I am the reason your Netflix still recommends psychological dramas and stupid romantic comedies.

I am the ice cream maker, the mixer, the glass fish bottle openers from Mexico that still sit in your cabinets.

I am all of the groceries and dates I paid for this time two years ago.  And I am your monthly condo association fees your are now paying in full at the condo you still live in.

I am the puppy store by the Target.

I am Target and Ikea and Best Buy.

I am the drive into the suburbs.  

I am the doctor's office on Broad Street right before City Hall.

I am the made up songs and dances to words about you.

I am the next apartment you'll live in that actually has windows in the bedroom.

I am the scent of vanilla and Hanae Mori.

I am Prohibition and Lagunitas.

I am the half uneaten french fries you didn't finish on your plate.

I am the chair beside your mom  and the conversation she is having about her sadness and pain and misery.

I am the sheets on your bed and the bathmat and the towels you still use.

I am the mounain of snow for tubing at different resorts in NY and PA.

I am the hug from behind. The emptiness of your lap.

I am just someone your next girlfriend will be better than.

I am the bobby pins.

adapted from the thought catalog

No comments: