Letters to myself

It's a Friday night, seven minutes away from the next day.  3 months away from the feelings, but tonight, tomorrow, I'm feeling them, the same, yet again.  Again.  Will they ever cease?  No matter the time or distance.  We are endlessly distant.  If, if I was your girlfriend, your love, would you not have called me tonight, tomorrow?  Pursued me.  Hugged me.  Told me to tell you how I feel.  What it is I am feeling?  What is it I'm feeling?  Instead, it's seven minutes away from tomorrow and time and time again it feels like inconsequential eternity with you.  Would you not have wanted to know?  To listen openly without judging, without fear.  Of rejection, of confusion.  From the blood I'm bleeding in my veins I want you to.  Because that, and so much more, would mean I am loved.  Wholly. Holy are those that listen.  But how can you listen when your heart doesn't want to hear?  I am here, breaking my walls but you're not there, here, standing to push the debris away to get to the truth.  If you haven't yet or ever will walk to be here, I beg you tell me.  I'll listen, with heart, to every meaning to your words and every distance that won't be covered.  When we are together it doesn't show how much, I don't show how much, I have grown, I retreat within the last of my shielded walls in your presence.  Because you are firing at me with judgement and condescension that I take guard with all I have left known from past.  How can I not?  If you are not willing to freely let me stand in front of my wall, naked, vulnerable, new... Here.  Asking.  hugging me.  Loved.  Again, more intentionally, I ask you to let me know.  If you foreseeing, can or ever will.  Or ever have.  Loved me.  Hope is not what I want to live by.  Faith rather.  But you have to crash your wall too.  Stand naked, vulnerable and new in front of me too.  To get past the ruins of us both.  Feeling safe in the ruins would be to know them.  Their forms, their figures, their colours, their depths and their ability to be historically appreciated.  There are two sites here that are excavated and how can we
see each others'
when, there, seven minutes from tomorrow,
we're cowering behind our own?

__________

When I tell you I'm chaotic in my mind tank.  I was desperately trying to get you to ask.  And not by a simple whatsapp msg hours later, you knew (or you don't know me) that its meaning was deeper than a "mind tank chaos?" response.  We both cowered.

When I said "people drink to mask, people don't smoke [ciggies] to mask." - I was hiding.  It wasn't my truth.  People DO smoke to mask.  Anxiety, stress, socially or alone.  But I was taking guard in your presence.

When Karin said that Michelle cried that night.  I cried many times that night too. But you know (or you don't know me) that I don't shed tears.  I bottle them.  I cried when you took 15minutes too long to leave so I missed yoga.  I cried when you put my hand on you, inappropriately, randomly, in the witching hours of the night.  I cried when we spoke about Michelle's mother.  I cried when you lay on the couch both cold and yet more comfortable than I.  I cried when you called the TV stupid.  I cried when your face questioned/doubted/ridiculed things I said.  I cried every time you did not embrace/hug/affectionately touch me.  I cried when I got another glass of wine.  I cried when Karin said, and believed, she was your mother.  I cried when my hands were shaking making coffee.  I cried when I wasn't able to get flowers.  I cried when I wanted to leave on Tuesday when I also wanted to stay and talk to you all night.  I cried when I arrived and didn't run and jump into your arms.  I cry when I realize you went away from me for 3months not to fix us but only you.

__________

Meet me there.  With the dust and the debris and the continuous rebuilding.  My darkness, my treasure is there for you to know.  There's a field beyond our ruins.  If it takes me longer, Sweet Soldier, I'm on my way.  Whether to you or not this is me standing in front of my wall, walking, running.  But cowering I cannot continue.  As silence is loud too and often misheard.  Falling on deaf hearts.  So tell me, I'll listen.  Standing.  Whether it's in the asking
or the telling,
                                                                  I ask,
                       meet me there
Here, seven minutes from tomorrow.

__________

Oh the moon is full.  My mug is full.  Makeup and coffee. My tummy is too full for my liking.  My skin is cold.  The air around it cold.  The blood below it cold.  The hour is cold.  Coffee and energy fill me further.  Makeup and skin hide me farther.

Moon, you illuminate the sun hidden, leaving shadows.  Ships are far on the edge of the long day.  But also the new.  Still and not at bay.  Keeping themselves in the shadows even more contrasted to the dark depths they wait upon.  Surfacing swells sway, lights laboriously lament.  There are people aboard there are things aboard, offshore furthermore contained.  

The moon pulls the ocean past them, like it does me darken the stars in my eyes.  The night is where it gets cold.  A few flickers failing to show the extent of what is actually so much larger in size and structure.  To eyes dilated searching for light.  They say your eyes do this when looking at love, however they don't say that it's only the sensitive eyes that have this ability. To see the extent of what is actually so much larger in life. 

Without the moon we blue eyed ships in this ocean would not adjust.  To cold to skin to darkness and to subsequent light.

It is the moon and the night that makes offshore oceans seem small but oh the ships are on the edge of tomorrow and that much closer to the warmth of time, and there is little distance from me to them now in the night.  

In the day it won't matter.  My eyes will be constricted, with warm skin, the ocean not dark and the moon unseen.  Shadows only man made and the edge of tomorrow will ebb and flow in the current. 

Rest well contained people and things, as I bid the moon away and close my eyelids for tomorrow.