Fuck. It’s happening.

I’m feeling again.

 

Splayed open on the grass,

the sun makes my lipstick stick

and my dress cling.

 

And Old San Juan is cracking.

Paint stripped from Cafe Cola’o

digs beneath my fingers.

 

Let this place burrow inside of me.

Let the tourists trickle back to sea,

they’ll remember the pastel colors.

 

And my pink undies, lined in lace

peak out at the sky.

This isn’t about sex.

It’s about laughter.

 

I am the best friend.

Look back on what I’ve done and crumble

in awe, I am in love

with everything.

 

Flowers and vines won’t stop bursting from my eyes.

And he feels like home– like coffee rings on the old oak table,

on loose leaf paper, on my mother’s piano compositions.
I wish I could draw music.

It’s all just lines anyway.

 

like the dutch  horizon,

threaded with tulips and crimson.

or the angles of a new york city corner

or the way night soothes the ocean.

 

I scribbled notes about what I’ve learned and how I’ve changed

on the train home from London.

Funny how an old mental institution with crusty yellow walls, and five locks turned to family.

Sometimes, I even miss that quivering light.

And I miss the electronic beats.

And biting my lip till it bled because I couldn’t feel my mouth.

And the wobbly bike and that damned quivering light.

 

I’m fluent in Spanish, but only when I’m drunk or dreaming.

 

He snatched my hand,

tore my bones away from the party.

Collapsed in a puddle and screamed.

“Scream with me.”
I did.

 

And rips of yellow, that crusty yellow, scattered the sky

And I started crying just because present always turns to past

And that’s the only thing I know.

 

“Are you okay?”
I am.

 

—

 

I tried calling the other day.

His voicemail recording is still the same:

“you are not dreaming.”

And the automated lady was curt when she said “goodbye.”

 

And the butterflies sleeping in my stomach finally woke up,

They stirred a bit, before flooding my lungs–

Only some tore their wings in my teeth on their way to the world.