along the road

growing in the dark | 2015 | age 16

                I am sixteen when I forget the blaze of your name against my tongue.

                Your voice fades away first. The high pitched edge in your laugh when you went on a bit too long, the deep rumble when you stubbed your toe against something avoidable, the low rasp that I replayed again and again, over and over, the soundtrack of my sleepless nights, the score to my love, surrendered.

                       Your hands follow soon afterwards. The feel of them against my face as you prodded me to feel how cold they were (it's winter, I said, what did you expect?), the blackened edge of your thumb, the history of which I have left unlearned, how rough and large and so damn present I'd imagine they'd feel when wrapped around my own.

                 Your eyes leave last. The sky blue that radiates through your soul, that leaks through the pores of your skin, that drips from your lips when I think of you.

           Everything fades, and soon even your name is a forgotten memory; a buried body, a mourned death, but still a grave that holds me hesitantly, one that I can never return to.

☀

                 You are seventeen when we speak again.

          It's not a colossal conversation; one that bends the universe and twists the sun and burns the sky. It's an I don't know what to get her, and a chocolate and money work just fine. It's an I can't wait and a lol, I'm sure. And it's an I hope to see you tonight, and a sorry, you won't.

               You are seventeen when you realize that you have no hold over me. I stand on the brink of that age, that middle ground, and breathe out whatever you stitched into me. The heart finds its way out, shreds of skin and bloody tissue worming in my palm as I fling that dead memory to the side.

                     I drink tea out of mugs and fail to think of you, I write about my dreams and fail to ink you into them, I talk about love and boys and the heart that's on fire and fail to say your name.

                My roots return, glazed in glorious bark, digging deeper into soil that only feeds and feeds and feeds. My flowers bloom, colours spiralling off of every petal, life swimming in every stem. My branches extend, lengthy, mighty, righteous, strong. My heart beats on—I only ever needed one, anyway—and my smile becomes the sun.

           I live, and I breathe, and I do it all—wonderfully, beautifully, powerfully—without you.

☀

Situation number four.

Short, but meaningful. Important.

A big part of me wishes it ended here; that I left him buried, that I hadn't unearthed whatever we had. But I'm a big dummy (and a terribly hopeless romantic, Lord save me) and I went and did it anyway. Which is great for you because, you know, more stuff to read, and it's pretty alright for me, too—more pain to turn into power. Yasssss.

Thank you for being here.

I love you.

—jay