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This blog is everything I never got a chance to actually say. And no…
Everyone falls around me in fear.
It sounds weird but I mostly just stood over your bed and watched you sleep. Your mouth was open and the unsteadiness of your breathing scared me. I asked you questions and I read to you but I got no response. Just a glazed over stare. I was there for almost two hours and you were completely silent. So when I whispered “I love you,” in your ear goodbye I wasn’t expecting you to say “I love you too.” I’m sorry, I tried not to cry but I did. My hand just looked so small in yours.
I wish you were here to make me laugh. I’m so sad.
I imagine her dark hair was probably waist-length. She would wake up from her hungover slumber and run her fingers through it in lieu of a comb. Maybe she would braid it and pin it up in the back, tiny ringlets, a tribute to Shirley Temple in the film Heidi. She probably owned a big floppy hat, yellow or perhaps moss green with a polka dot ribbon wrapped around the base. She would put her feet up on the dash and he would drive along the California coastline. I’m sure she smelled of sea salt and lilacs, not lilacs, maybe lavender. She smelled like purple.
Her eyes were probably heavy, heavy carrying the burden of the pain she had seen. Perhaps an alcoholic father whose love of the bottle forced the family apart or maybe an automobile accident she witnessed and could not help and I’m sure she really would have wanted to. Heavy eyes but trusting and kind. The type you could see juggling clowns and baby lambs in. Eyes that told a story, eyes you couldn’t bear to look at for long.
Maybe she was Hispanic. Maybe she had hands that rolled tortillas and feet that could dance le Quebradita. She would have had brothers. Many, many brothers, brothers who loved her more than themselves but brothers who couldn’t express it. So she ran away. They were probably older brothers.
I bet she loved to sleep, and read and write. I bet that’s why he fell in love with her. Her favourite position was curled up on the front porch hammock nestled between two blue posts of that California Victorian. That house was a place for misfits, for people who cared too much and people who didn’t care at all. She felt too much all the time, too much euphoria, too much sorrow, a roller coaster she got on that had no final destination. She was probably bipolar and chose to medicate herself with sleeping and reading and writing and coffee. Only black coffee, dark like her waist-length hair.
I bet she felt like Sunday morning. Her lips tasting like citrus, juicy and plump, lips that he could bite into and keep inside him. Lips you don’t forget. I’m sure her laughter was contagious, feeling her pain with every whimsical chuckle. I’m sure she was broken. I think he wanted to fix her. I think she would have liked him to but the broken can’t fix the broken so instead they chose to laugh, and sleep and drink coffee and dance le Quebradita.
I’m sure she didn’t want to leave but when things go right for too long she jumps before they go left. Maybe she smiled as she ran, that smile he loved and lost himself in. A smile that inspires, a smile one only dreams of, a woman who is no longer real. Red and raw with love.
I used to call you fickle. You would change your mind about little things in an instant. You wouldn’t want to wear those pants anymore. You don’t really like that color and you don’t feel like going swimming today after all. In a matter of seconds your mind was changed. I thought it was charming. Cute. How fast your brain worked. How your thoughts about something could change without anything happening to persuade you; only the unaided thoughts of your mind. Until it was me you were fickle about. I wasn’t enamored by you then. I was no longer dazzled by the ever changing compartments of your mind when you told me I’m sorry. I don’t know what I want. I’m fickle… I grew to hate the word. Like I hate the words incorrigible and suffice. Things only we would say. A secret assembly of words that were only funny when slipping from your lips. I’m erasing them from my mind. They’re not funny anymore. Saying them without you just doesn’t…suffice.
I’m always the one to not-so-secretly-hate the girl who everyone says is, “the nicest person I’ve ever met! I love her!” I don’t think it’s jealousy because, let’s face it, I’m the farthest thing away from the nicest person you’ve ever met and I don’t expect you to think so, or even want you to think so, but if not jealousy then what? Why? …what is it that I see in these people that everyone else doesn’t?
I’m also the person that makes everyone feel uncomfortable by whisper asking, “Am I really the only one that doesn’t like her? She kinda bugs…” when she goes to the bathroom and everyone gives me that I-feel-so-sorry-for-you-that-you-have-to-hate-on-the-girl-who-everybody-loves-to-feel-good-about-yourself-look. But that’s really not it! I mean when I want to feel good about myself there are plenty other people to openly judge like girls with ugly hair and midgets. Honestly though i’m not as horrible as the people that still love super nice girl think (maybe for hating on midgets I am). But there’s always, always that person who comes up to me after everyone else has dispersed or a text later that same night saying, “I totally hate her too! She’s obnoxious.” And although deep down I have animosity towards this person for allowing the pitied stares and “She’s awesome, what’s wrong with you?” comments when I brought it up in earlier conversation, I’m happy they also felt the need to tell someone about their guilty hatred because now I can kind of justify not loving ”the nicest person in the world.”
I used to make bets with you and I didn’t care about losing because then you’d just owe me ten, little, kisses.