I thought I saw your wrists today
In a crowd full of people reaching for my hand
None of their fingers seemed to know how to change my direction
They said the wrong things and yelled when they should have been silent
Your strong hands though
Gave the best advice, and in whispers
To be sure I leaned in
You let go before I reached the end
I’m left now, with a prayer my palms stole something from the kindness in your grip


I wonder sometimes if it is normal to be this good at forgetting.

My past is a fleck of dust caught for a moment in the yellow glow that crisscrosses my living room floor. It is the spider dangling halfway between my ceiling and bathroom tile. It exists, though I choose to ignore it, and to make it go away all I have to do is turn off the light. Somewhere in the space between then and now, suspended in the primordial goo of the universe, webbed in the simultaneous being and unbeing of time, there are naked photos of me. 

They exist and yet somehow they do not. It is as though there is a vacuum between the past and the present and those photos float weightlessly within it. Maybe one day this space will cease to exist. Until then there are no photos. 

I search within my navel for lint and run my fingers through the fine hairs on my torso. You are so close our breath is almost a living thing. And yet the distance between us stretches for miles and miles and neither of us wants to be the one to take the first step for fear we might end up alone in the middle of an empty nowhere. I look at you finally and the gravity of it all nearly brings me to my knees.

Somewhere in the space between then and now are a hundred things I hope you never know. Somewhere in the space between us are a hundred things I can never say. 

One of my favorites.

150 notes

RIchard Siken and Marianne Dissard


I wish you were here. How I miss you so. I “think” you would be here if you really wanted. It hurts to think that.

Our last kiss is haunting my mind. It felt so real and so alive. I felt your intense desire for me even though you held yourself back. I was so sure I would see you again, but as…

Man oh man.

35 notes

I was in a rush until I met you.
Now I want to make my life a Sunday morning.
Yawn slow, stretch my arms wide
Snooze the alarm
Turn the phones off, they don’t matter.
Tangled up in blankets and you.
A cup of coffee while I read you Bukowski
The one about the barstool again
Yeah, I like that one too
I’m not sure why I was in such a hurry
I guess I never wanted to
Simply lay on the floor with someone
I could stare at the ceiling with you for hours
And never be bored
Count the specks to me
I love the way you say “four”
Hell, we could sit here in silence
Just don’t hurry
I know Monday is coming
It will be here
I know I say it even if you’re just leaving the bed
But I really do miss you already.

1 note

Could anyone have said it better?

Couldn’t be more excited. #TEDxTAMU #IdeasWorthSpreading

Couldn’t be more excited. #TEDxTAMU #IdeasWorthSpreading

Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
Joan Didion, from “On Keeping a Notebook”, in “Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Essays” (via mitochondria)


608 notes