But that was a long time ago
We did the very things
we never imagined we would do.
And it's too late now,
I've had a long look at you.
It was as if I’d never lived
any other life before.
I woke up wearing a black crêpe dress, sangria lipstick,
a tooth-pestled headache, dark and sharp.
But I still seemed a masterpiece
of composure
didn't I?
Nothing ever seems to impress you, you noticed
and also how
I was not beautiful, but self-mastery
can have the same magnetic pull
as beauty, can be so powerful
that people and molecules
realign themselves in a room.
The days that followed were a blur.
My own voice was hollow
and infinitely far away.
I didn't eat for two days.
The doorbell rang and rang.
I was stuck in a loop replaying
how we ran down the library steps.
Your navy shoes. The rain flecking our faces.
Walking through the dewy arboretum.
It was refreshing to find someone
interested in me
apart from my talents or disorders,
not always prying for more
or trying to pick my life apart
like a fish split in two and splayed open—
pinbones everywhere.
You sat me down
and told me the truth.
Even if you love Nabokov
it was Chekhov
who invented the modern novel.
Well, anyone can understand
such a plain sadness.
I fell in love exactly how you arranged it.
With my concession, sure.
But still.
That was a long time ago.
When I knocked, the door had opened
quicker than expected;
I was staring out at the street
thinking of something else.
You stopped me in the doorway
to pull a thread off my sweater.
And how spectacular to be reflected in your eyes.
I couldn't understand what you were saying,
I was too busy
turning your words over in my mouth,
those delicious syllables.
An empty stomach can make anything
feel necessary.
I heard your voice say come here
and then the caramel-colored everything,
like the morningglow of a sunrise.
Your Cézannes and owls and playing cards.
The closeness of your face when the room went dark.
There was a certain disorientation
of being the wrong girl,
with the wrong man in the wrong apartment.
But what can you do
when someone says
come here,
and reaches for your hip.
And their eyes can see inside of you.
And they know you've got the blues.
What song is this? I asked
for something to say.
My loyalties were all over the place.
My hands, everywhere.
And even then,
despite everything,
it still came as a shock to me.
The next day, you used the words think and love
as I moved breakfast around a plate.
Do you even know what love is?
What it looks like? What it tastes like?
How it shimmers for one second
before it turns to ash
and moves right through you like a ghost in the room.
How it tastes like two takeout boxes,
the clinking of glass,
another red mouth full of teeth.
Weeks can go by like that,
and it gets harder and harder not to be hungry.
You said I hate to keep harping on this,
but you really must eat something.
Yes, I know.
My parents said Intelligence isn't everything, Julia.
Yes, I know.
Yes, I know.
I like fried eggs! I like jam and toast!
I can eat four slices! I can eat the whole loaf!
I was speaking in a very loud voice; everyone
pretended not to hear.
Really, my wolfish ego devours everything in sight.
Demands loyalty
and remorse
and silence
But the body is weak,
it can be turned to off like a lamp.
That's what I did.
The sculpture will emerge,
but only if you stand still
and are very patient.
Look at me, I'm talking to you. I
could see inside you, too:
all that art and math and regret
adding up, mixed together,
slowly frothing over. That's why
you could sense my loneliness.
Flat white, that's the ticket
you said, no sugar.
You told me things would get better,
and they did.
Anyway,
that was a long time ago—
and yet.
This Sunday morning
I woke up late
from a heavy, complicated dream. Nothing left
but a ringing in my ears.
Someone who looked like you
put ground glass in my food
because I had no discipline.
I am telling you this dream for a reason.
Because heartbreak
is my great secret, too.
Don't you know—
almost everybody's got one.
Don't you know
that I never stopped loving you
so much it ached inside of me and began to feel like
sadness.
But a certain heaviness can take over, eventually
it prompts
a gentle goodbye at the gate, a parting glimpse,
our fingers tangled then no longer touching.
I didn’t get
even this.
Only
a death haiku.
Accompanied by a small piano elegy.
It doesn't really have a name.
I got almost everything
I wanted.
Anyway,
that was a long time ago.
All I am trying to say is
Hello, old love.
I am still waiting for you.
You've always been a book
with no binding.
All I mean is that you're smart.
People like you.
They tie themselves
in knots for you.
I did.
A long time ago. Although it was unlike me,
I ached to reach for your hand
and when we were alone,
I took it. Remember?
Every time it snows at night
I remember
and remember.
How sensational to walk down the street
holding your hand
in the night,
in broad daylight.
To wake up next to you in the morning.
You took me to the mountains.
Taught me the difference between incense and agarwood.
Swept the hair off my neck.
Pulled a thread off my sweater.
By September,
everyone noticed my appetite had improved.
You'd be surprised
what small, everyday things
can lift us out of despair.