When You Started Writing Poems in Spanish

6. our roots will always be tangled

I awoke earlier than normal the next day, eager to escape what I deemed bad dreams. Flashes of vignettes I hadn't felt in a while: my hands running through long hair, soft skin on my own, arms wrapping around my waist as I cooked breakfast for us. Whoever "us" was.

I sat up straight in bed, hunching over to lean on my legs and cup my face.

I hadn't felt like that in a while. That sinking, yearning feeling of missing someone you had never met. I thought for a moment, reaching over to my bedside table and grabbing a notepad and pencil. My window was still open, making room for moonlight to illuminate the room just enough for me to see the page in front of me.

I wrote about what I saw-- what I wanted to see, so badly, for no reason in the middle of the night. The pencil scratched, and the sound was almost irritating to my tired ears. Bleached blonde hair, the soft curve of her cheek, a taunting smile.

It wasn't about my ex-girlfriend, or at least it didn't feel like it was about her. I hadn't written any poems for her, giving up the hobby before we broke up (and not letting myself sink that far into heartbreak), but if I did, they wouldn't've felt as good as writing this one did. Maybe I would work on it again, add the finishing touches that seperated the ramblings of sleep deprived Jamie from Professional Interesting Poem by Jamie Fleming.

I tucked the notepad and pencil back onto my nightstand and sat against my headboard. I couldn't understand how I wasn't tired, usually I would sleep as much as possible before work. I closed my eyes for just a moment before my phone rang.

The buzzing was far from soft, my hands shot for my phone and barely registered the name of who was calling.

I answered. "Isn't is four A.M. there?"

Jessie sounded tired, "Yeah. I need to... How are you? How's the paper?"

"We're doing good," I said, leaning back. "So am I. I'm glad the weather is starting to calm down."

"That's good." It was four in the morning in London, she did not sound good.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "You had a game yesterday, you're not tired?"

"Not really," Jessie said, yawning, "I mean, yes, I'm okay and not tired. I wanted to ask something."

"Shoot."

"Can I come to Barcelona for, like, three days?" She sounded strange, not nervous but nervous-adjacent.

"Of course, yeah," I said, nodding. "Any reason or do you just miss your super interesting and not at all lonely big sister?"

"I miss you cooking for me," Jessie said, I hoped I made her smile. "And we haven't seen each other since the World Cup. I've been weird, I need to be around someone that lets me be weird."

I snorted. "Only if you let me be weird in return, I've started writing poems again."

"Oh god," Jessie laughed. "What happened?"

"Nothing, I dunno," I yawned, "I just went on a blind date-"

"A blind date?"

"-yes, well it wasn't really a date, anyways I think my brain is telling me I miss having a girlfriend."

"Glad to know the single-ness is finally catching up to you."

"I'll tell you when you get here," I said, not wanting to spoil everything I would tell her when she arrived. "When are you getting here?"

"Uh, well, if I book my ticket now," she paused, "then I should land today at like ten in the night, is that okay?"

"Great," I nodded, "that's cool."