somewhere only we know

It wasn't you.

Of course it was so naively stupid of me to think it was.

If coincidences are just coincidences, why do they seem so contrived?

I mean seriously, if a woman suddenly realizes the man she wishes never left her still may be lurking about where she frequents online, and places an oh-so-not-so-subtle post about links with names that might jump out at people, and just knows that "lingua franca" seen buried within a list of names would most definitely mean something to a certain someone, sees that the day that plot is hatched someone follows the trail, from the city where that someone lives...

Well what would your heart think?

It wouldn't think about the ten other people who might have seen the post.
And that half of them are from that city.

Because how would they know Lingua Franca out of all those fucking links Lisa has on her sidebar. It had to be you. (Fuck Harry Conick Jr! It wasn't!)

I was so happy. I was like a child at Christmas. You had come and read my words, my love, my fiction. I could just pretend it never happened but I'd know.

I'd have my footprints.

And I wouldn't have to wonder.

And I could just cherish inside that if I had prose to sing to you I could leave it there, and maybe on a quiet night, maybe while traveling, when forgetting is long

you'd come and read it.

Now I have been sucker punched, had the rug pulled out from under me, the knife that was twisted... I cried for a few minutes, then sucked it up.

This is now my temper tantrum. My husband used to kick stair rails and fling furniture, I can type cuss words and make them bold for emphasis. I can go on and on, ANGST FUCKING GALORE! Because just like I said in the beginning

If a woman writes words that no one will read do they make a sound?

I'll tell you

They don't.
Despite their exorcism they stick in your throat
until you asphyxiate.


What I did think of tonight was the mini-convo I had with our mutual friend about "Logotherapy".

It is my choice.
I chose to not let go.
I don't understand how or why it is a choice
but in my heart I know that if I tried hard enough
that it does require effort and action
I could find happiness and peace.
It doesn't seem that way though,
in the heat of emotions
and the grade of the road ahead

I can persevere all I want
get a story published
write a novel
see my son become president
save my corner of the world
I sometimes feel like none of it would matter because I cannot share it with you.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCK

I could live this lie forever if I just knew you were there with me in spirit.

I should believe you are anyway, and I do; anytime the clock reads 11:11. Anytime I hear Michael Penn. Anytime a cold wind blows through me.

How ironic, I am the one who always had blind faith. I can believe Jesus holds a place for me in heaven, and that my Nana is there waiting for me someday, yet I can't believe you think about me, or wonder how I am, even when I see a bone thrown my way. It's not the same when I can only reply casually and objective.

This visceral passion is a curse. Why should words make me cry?