I sit. Oftentimes just to think. And thinking usually leads to tears…And they sit. And oftentimes after crying for so long a lump becomes apparent in my throat. And it sits. And oftentimes my mind processes it and my heart becomes heavy and it sits. Thus ending and beginning the treacherous cycle of sitting. So I write…..
He touched me. He looked me in my eyes and told me he didn’t want me. He struck me. He looked me in my eyes and told me he didn’t need me. He lied. He looked me in my eyes and said not one word. He stared as if his eyes were fixed on himself. The one being he cannot live without… because after all… if you live without self you are non-existent.
So I looked back at him… and I stared through glazed vision and I cried. I looked into his eyes and looked right through him and into the window of a broken heart. And I traced his chest with the palm of my hand and laid my palm where his heart should have been. Instead placed there was space. Space unmoved with no intent on moving placed beside a glimmer of hope.
Hope is an iffy bitch. Hope is what got me here. With a friend or too. I met her once, hope, on a desperate day on my bedroom floor. She picked me up. She wiped my tears and told me better was around the corner. I would stumble upon it and I wouldn’t be happier… not at the moment of stumbling but after. So I waited. I sat, as usual. That way I would be sure not to stumble. Hope could only pick me up once. . . so she said…. after all she had to run along with love and faith. So I sat… in my room with despair with not an ounce of hope anywhere.
Sometimes hope comes to visit me. To reassure me that I’ll be fine but I just have to stumble to get there. She didn’t let me know that the stumble would be years of tossing and a few tumbles. Up and down hills and through rough patches in unknown valleys. She didn’t say shit. Every now and then she would pick me up off of the floor and reassure me that all would be ok. “First you must stumble.”
Sometimes hope comes to visit me. I saw her when I looked at him. One time he smiled and I could have sworn it was her. I doubled back and blinked twice and then I wish I hadn’t. See the glimmer of hope I saw through the window of the broken hearted had escaped to the top of love’s mountain. It caved in the curve of his smile and almost peaked at his tongue. But I blinked. Shit.
Often times I wish love visited as often as hope did. Well more like an extended vacation. That way when hope picked me up off of the floor and dried my eyes I wouldn’t sit back down. Instead I would just look up and find love waiting with open arms with the open love letter I had written to him a long time ago sitting on the desks between the present and the future. It sits there stagnant. He sits there unmoving. He is the space unmoved with no intent on moving. And although she is iffy… there is still a glimmer of hope. And with that…hope travels back to the tip of his tongue…
He touched me. He looked me in my eyes and told me he didn’t want me. He struck me. He looked me in my eyes and told me he didn’t need me. He lied. He looked me in my eyes and said not one word. He stared as if his eyes were fixed on himself. Hope peaked. Love escaped… and I stumbled right into his arms.
What a glimmer of hope.
Just keep hoping,