This little shack
Might not be much but really it’s a time machine
Where hours turn into minutes
And everything slows til our breathing turns into beating
And the blood hammering in our veins
Keeps
Cadence with the
Breath of wind and furrows of the lake

You can’t run your frozen fingers along my torso as I stretch
Or lick your lips and raise your eyebrows
Stare at my waist and hips when I wear a sweater and jeans
Instead of the t-shirt and yoga pants I’d been so accustomed to

You can’t use words like “the last thing I need” in reference to another girl
But tell me you’re buying a new shirt for your date with her
You can’t lie to me through your teeth
Denying your intentions and
Intrigue through incredulity
That radiates from you more than your body heat
When you sleep

You can’t do any of this because for once
Someone can read your insecurities
Just as you can read theirs

I had wanted to share something worthy of history books
Of beautiful melodies and serene chords
Something heart-wrenching for the lonely
That others crave

In my desperation
I hadn’t realized how
Absolutely harrowing it is to be so
Vulnerable and
Naked

For you

Another sleepless night.
I think this makes two. Going on three.
My entire body aches, restless. I crack, stretch, groan. I moved from my bed to the couch, flipped the mattress over, spun it around. Laid on my side, my back, my stomach, stuck a pillow under my legs. Stuck two pillows under my legs. Opened the window a crack, pulled the curtain shut. Yanked the curtain open, and threw the window up the rest of the way. Switched the sheets, kicked off a blanket, curled up into the blanket, swaddled myself in multiple blankets. Lit candles, blocked off all light, even turned the overhead florescent light on. Played classical music and put in ear plugs.

But my body was aching for you.

I’m aware of
The logistics
Statistics
And quick fixes
But what I can’t comprehend is the
Sheer intent of your lack of words
Your ability to leave me grasping at every
Last
Breath
And tilt of your head
The way your eyes enraptured me through your
Immersion into my
Quintessence
Leaving my chest writhing and hands
Pulsating
Cheeks saturated while my head
Runs a marathon

And within this maelstrom that I become
The archetype of heedless, you
Retreat

End scene
And repeat

In Alnwick, England this summer, there was this old train station that was remodeled into a secondhand bookstore and cafe, and I rummaged through the rows of musty old books, hoping to find the one I was searching for, Lust For Life by Irving Stone. I had read the book in high school, and had borrowed it from my art teacher. I loved it. I fell in love with the story of Vincent Van Gogh, even though I wasn’t the biggest fan of his work. But his biography, based off of letters between the eccentric and his brother Theo, made me appreciate them for what and who they represented.

As the stale pages filled my nostrils, I was growing wary that I would find anything on the artist. But I had struck gold. An older copy of the Portrait of Vincent: A Van Gogh biography by Lawrence and Elisabeth Mary Hanson. For £7.51, I had struck gold. Not only in literature but in art. The following weeks I read it every chance I got, and only managed halfway through, reading on the six hour coach ride to London.

In the preface, the Hansons wrote:

“the life of Van Gogh will always be to many people even more remarkable than his work - it is one of the most tragic and, regarded in a certain light, most inspiring stories in the world.”

This statement captures the essence of Vincent’s life better than anything. According to their version of the biography, he was not only a hardworking talented painter, but an effortless poet as well. These are some of my favorite quotes, either from the Hansons or Van Gogh himself.

“He walked with a good heart because he felt that something lay ahead of him; that the future would declare itself” (pg. 64)

“I’ll tell you what I’m like< i’m like a caged bird. In spring the bird feels there is something for him to do but he can’t do it. What/ He tries to remember. Then he remembers. He looks about him and cries to himself, ‘other birds are making their nests and laying eggs and bringing up their children’. He beats his head against the cage, but the cage is all around him, he can’t get out. He is maddened by anguish.” (pg. 67)

“So busy suffering that he barely recognized his first good living influence in art.” (pg. 93)

“If he could somehow express their lives so that others would understand, his own life would be justified.” (pg. 70)

“But a man conscious of a destiny working itself out will follow the slightest hint.” (pg. 63)

“To him, the painters’ job was to depict not the shadows of life but life as it was, a struggle, and to show that in this struggle alone true beauty was to be found.” (pg. 102)

My heart is racing
Here, on the floor
Where you’ve left it
But after so many months of floating, I’ve found that I am once again
Grounded

I want you to see, to feel the way I do
So insignificant and small
Unwanted, even…
Discarded
But as I lay here
Running my fingers through freshly bleached hair
Naked
In the mess of it all
I want nothing more than you to find your way
To this sea of tile and
Regrets (or lack thereof)

Because my muscles have never been so constricted,
My limbs never so restless and
My mind
Never
As serene
But the linoleum is compelling my skin to erect
In the late hours of this morning
And I’m weary
Of sharing this ant’s eye view
Alone