Fr: The Tracey Fragments

{ Tuesday, October 25, 2011 }
One day you will fall for him, and he touches you with his fingers.
And he burns holes in your skin with his mouth.
And it hurts when you look at him, and it hurts when you don't.
And it feels like someone's cut you open with a jagged piece of glass,
and then you realized you always felt that way.

Unapologetic Stream of Consciousness

{ Wednesday, October 12, 2011 }
In a week and some-odd days I will be back here.
Back where the balmy air forever smells of asphalt, exhaust, street food, and sweet promise.
The only place powerful enough to evoke an emotional reaction out of me upon landing.
The place where I am so small and minuscule, yet a part of some strange, fleeting movement bigger and more vibrant than anything fathomable.
I could fall in love here.
Not with a person -- no, not necessarily -- but with the entire, buzzing atmosphere of none other than New York City.
I want to build my future here.
To live within my means in a modest and cozy studio apartment, paying my way through each day with the next writing job that graces my desk.
Surrounded by books, the swarthy aroma of coffee, and solace.
But, really -- I could fall in love here.
I could meet you, you, 'The One,' in a library, a bookstore, a coffee shop, a sidewalk,
In a completely accidental-yet-impeccably-perfect manner.
And I will forever be changed.
For now, I will toss and turn but refuse to drown in a sea of unrelenting and undulating frustration.
I am pleased, yes. I am exuberant, yes. But I am not fulfilled.
The expected weekly grind -- walking through a campus and sitting through classes full of mere silhouettes of individuals.
Each one wearing a mask of hopeful anonymity to the outsiders, to each other.
The hazy, amaretto nights that weigh heavily on the trunk of my mind and the conscience,
The self-fulfilling pleasures that we are 'supposed' to experience, or better yet, endure.
The endless evenings spent over, under, in between covers, shrouded in mutual secrecy.
The greetings-turned-'just friends'-turned-curiosities-turned-something foreign, passionate, and fateful that forever leaves an imprint on the heart.
These things, all of these things, will flutter away with time,
The distance softening their sting, their mental potency.
Until then, I will run without abandon to the gates of this resplendent city, breathless and exhausted,
Yet rejoicing in the light of my destiny.

917 Into Oblivion

{ Thursday, October 6, 2011 }
Driving, white knuckles and black nails
Inhaling the sensual essence of autumn.
It's remarkable, really,
How hints of hickory that slice through my lungs bring on the waves of nostalgia,
Akin to waves of nausea,
Coaxing me, beckoning me to give in to my mind's photographic eye.
I swerve into the bend of the road,
Door open, ready to bolt.
Boots hitting the gravel and off we go.
It all comes back in waves,
Waves of color,
Aubergine, russet, and maroon --
The spectrum of dead leaves,
Decaying, rotting, and stagnant under a formerly beautiful specimen.
Do you remember?
Carving into wood the branding of initials,
Speaking a foreign language of plans and "one days,"
Soft fingers intertwined and exploring,
Brushing the hair from my innocent face,
Planting kisses all over me, my neck,
On the soft S of my back,
A "shh," a secret I couldn't keep covert even if I wanted to.
Arguments ending in a breathless entanglement of flesh,
Traversing the creek and calling it our own.
But the words got in the way.
My letters --
You hated them.
You hated the words, the beautiful, eloquent words.
You couldn't decipher the rich meaning,
And the frustration turned to wrath, turned to scorn.
You hated me.
You cursed every word I penned,
Cursed my dreams, my heart.
I began falling asleep alone,
Paperbacks cradled in my arms,
A hollowed, empty space where your heartbeat used to lie.
And then I was alone.
The words meant too much, they still mean too much --
They spill from my mouth like sweet wine to anyone who will listen,
From my pen like an amalgam of black ink and wantonness.
The letters don't stop --
I write to a quixotic "You," certain that one day I will find you.
The one ember left, shouldering and sparking in the wind, is hope.
Hope.
It's all that I've got.
I slam the door, check the rear view for any glimmering mirage, and floor it into oblivion.