Archive for conversation

Baring Down

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2009 by 1writegirl

I seem to want
Less and less
Each day

Fewer possessions
To tie me down
Fewer thoughts
Of what if

Fewer hopes
Fewer dreams
Tired truisms
Unquestioned
Ideas

Less guidance
From
Without

I want to meet
My fears
Expose them
To the light
Relieve them
Of their power

I want
Good coffee
Something
Sweet to eat
I want
A warm bed
A good book

A worthy conversation
With someone
I respect

I want
To pay the bills

I want to write raw
Down to the bone
From the soul
The truth
No matter what
Without caring to
Please anyone

I want to shadow dance
In his kitchen
With a snake
On my arm
In an amber light

Wearing only a hat

My ’59 Ford Pickup

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 23, 2009 by 1writegirl

I’ve had cars that are
Fast and shiny
Spotless and flashy
With hi-tech devices

Cars that are sporty
With removeable tops
Leather interiors and
Turbo engines

0 to 60 in 3.9

Cars that are trusty
Dependable
Plain inside and out
That start up every time
No matter how hot or cold

But I gave them away
One by one
None of them had what it took
To fill my particular heart
With what it wanted to hold

Then I found it one day
When I wasn’t shopping
It caught my eye
And I never looked back

A 59 Ford pickup

It had a few dents
Rust in places
It had seen a lot of miles
It was black, my favorite color
With a rip in the driver’s seat

It only started
Every tenth time
I got in and turned the key

So I parked it in the shade
Of a weeping willow
And talked to it more
Than I drove it

I gave it baths
Kept it gassed up
Waxed it now and then
So that it would be ready
When it got ready
To take me for a ride

And on those days
When it started up
I’d roll the windows down
Crank up the music
Throw my head back
And drive till the tank was empty

I’d come home late
And go to bed
Tired but happy from my joyride
Remembering the sound
Of its purring engine
The feel of my hands on the wheel

I was crazy for that pickup
I never wanted another

I kept that truck as long as I could
As long as time allowed
Until one day it started no more
Its way of saying goodbye

It thought I should get a Ferrari

But I’d had enough driving
So I turned in my license
There’s too much risk involved
Too much potential for head-on collision
I figured I’d rather walk

But sometimes late at night
When my heart aches
And I just can’t sleep

I walk out into the yard
Over to the weeping willow

And lay my head upon the windshield
Trail my hand over the hood
Drape my body across the tailgate
And listen to the sound of a song

That I only ever heard

While driving with the radio off
In my 59 Ford pickup

Unexpected Bonuses of Being Apart from the One You Love, And, What I Miss Most

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 29, 2009 by 1writegirl

On the Plus Side: Beneficial Byproducts of Separation

You get to lose weight, without even trying.

You have sudden bursts of energy, especially after you’ve just heard from him, which make you very productive indeed.

You now have time to do all those little mundane chores you put off doing while he was here, like defrosting the freezer, clipping your toenails, and organizing your car’s maintenance and repair records.

You remember that you had a life of your own before he came along, and you’ve got one still. I’ve always, without exception, taken care of myself, and I am not dependent on someone else for my happiness (this kind of self-talk, which I picked up through many fruitful visits to therapists over the years, can be very useful.)

You are forced to make a choice between falling victim to your insecurities, or trusting that voice inside of you which tells you that sometimes you have to let go of that which means the most to you. That doesn’t mean pretending your feelings don’t exist, it means not allowing them to be demanding. This is the same voice that popped up out of nowhere the first day we met, took one look at him and in bewildered awe, said, It’s Him. Yass, I do believe it’s really Him. You remind yourself he’s got a voice too, and from time to time it inspires him to write poems about you, poems that speak of hope. You trust yourself because you have to. You trust him, because your love isn’t worth much if you don’t.

On the Down Side: What I Miss Most

Cooking, shopping, and writing together.

Going for a walk, particularly after dark.

Going and getting lattés and cappuccinos in the morning, afternoon, whenever, just because it feels like a good time for coffee.

Sex.

Hearing him say, “How come you’re so hot?”, “What do you see in me?” and “God, I love you.”

Just hanging out together.

Touching him.

His fingers in my hair.

Conversations with your best friend. About anything & everything. While eating breakfast or at two in the morning, with no barriers, walls, or secrets.

His kisses. Like manna from heaven, life-affirming. They are a language unto themselves.

I miss these two things from the deepest places within me.