remembering and longing for our full moon song from those three months a couple of years ago, as I plan to board a plane back to philly.

SFO-PHL

the name of our full moon song.

I miss it still.

I dreamt about you last night. You were still a womyn, and I saw you outside the gym. You looked a lot like her and you combined, but I knew it was you. I told you about her and me and I cried, collapsing in your arms as I never did in real life. You weren't terribly surprised and it felt good to get some closure on it all.

I dreamt about you last night. You were still alive, and I saw you at the tattoo parlor in Oakland. You looked like you had before the transplant, but super healthy. I asked you how you were still alive, and you told me you had just moved. I cried while I got tattooed; grief and relief filling my chest with each breath.

I dreamt about you last night. You still hated me and played the victim, even though we never spoke, as I saw you at the Civic Center MUNI station. You looked good, even though your hair was longer than I like it, and you had lost a lot of weight in a passive aggressive kind of way. You ignored me while reading a book about crime and drama, like you like in your daily life. I hardly noticed you, till you were almost gone, and I felt pretty much as destroyed as I feel every moment anyway.

I dreamt about you last night. You weren't afraid to hang out with me in real life, and I saw you in a public yet private venue. It was one of those dream-only spaces that was both completely out and completely in at the same time. We fell onto a bed and made out in the most intense connection I've ever felt. I wasn't afraid, despite the fact that I am utterly aware of the fact that you run away for 4 days to 1 week every time I ask you to be with me for real.

It felt good, despite it all.

I dreamt of you last night, despite the complete distance between us-- physical, corporeal, emotional, or mental... in spirit, we were together, trying desperately to make amends in the space of our souls and the here but never quick here time/space continuum of the dream world.

I dreamt of you last night.

Dear you,

I was thinking about how you appear in my life at exactly the right times... and yet, how sometimes I don't even notice you... how sometimes I resent you or try to control you.
I remember walking from public speaking class, talking about whether we thought being gay was biological or socially constructed. It was cold out in a very San Francisco way.
I remember dancing to Ani Difranco at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. The feeling of my shirt on my abdomen almost startled me.
I remember performing for my Masters Thesis, and I looked out at the audience, seeing each and every person.
And I remember you in a tent in Michigan. The rain poured in from a not-quite-right tarp job. Sia played. And then there was you.
Today, my legs ached as I walked up the hill outside my home... the hill that seems to get bigger by the day... the hill that seems to symbolize everything and nothing at once. I saw you then, and had a rare moment of appreciation. 
 Now, I stare at my hands, full of thick pulsing veins, cracked with lines that make them appear much larger and wonder if I can practice accepting you as is.
I take a deep breath, feeling my heart beat steadily and strongly.
I exhale as my stomach gurgles.
Goose bumps rush to my arms, and I smile.
I miss you when you are gone. I want to love you. I struggle to hate you.
But in the end, hill, tent, dancing, walking, or performing... there is always you, and it is always about you.

Dear you,

Day by day, I crawl through this experience... Moment by moment trying to survive in the now; returning to behaviors of the past; trying not to think of the future; surprising even myself...
I keep thinking it will get easier; like something will turn over and I will be over you...
and it will and I will, with time.
But that time is not today....
I keep thinking you'll start hearing me, respecting me, and understanding...
and you will, with time.
But not today...
I know this intellectually, but my body aches against that intellectual knowledge, feeling the pain of each word...
And I know you know how hurtful it all is, which is like pouring salt in the wounds, just for good measure.
I keep thinking- If only I could find the right words, response, gesture, to help you to know how hard this is for me too, how painful it is on this side of the invisible fence...
If I could just remind you that there is no fence, that you aren't a victim, and that there is no war or dilemma... That this love was real beyond anything either of us had felt.... 
and you will know that...
but not today...

Love, Me

It took me a while to realize that the bruise on your arm was just a shadow of your fist, headed for my chest...
I looked closer...
As I reached out for you, against my better judgement, I noticed something moving quickly, out of the corner of my eye.
I looked closer...
As I turned to see what it was, I felt the sting of air rushing by my face, my mouth, and my heart...
I looked closer...
By the time my eyes adjusted to the lightning speed of the justaposition, it was too late.
I looked closer,
As I felt the impact, with a thud, deep inside my chest...
I looked closer,
In an attempt to assess what was, what is, and what may be...
I looked closer,
trying to find your eye contact, your compassion, your humanity, and your love...
I looked closer,
only to find an empty space, where I once thought that you held care.
I looked closer,
and realized this fist pounding me in the chest, was really all there ever was.
I looked closer,
to see the shadow-bruise on your arm had metamorphosized into a sword like the one you wanted to carry on halloween... so illegal and needless, but something you felt you needed...
I looked closer,
as any love, care, feeling, and ground vanished like the shadow-bruise of your pseudo-need...
I looked closer,
to see nothing but my own stupidity.
I looked closer and said goodbye to you and your shadow-bruise abuse.
goodbye.

Dear You,

I sit here, all dressed up... no place to go... I was supposed to go out, but my plans were cancelled. I listen as the 31 goes by every 10 or 20 minutes. Every time, I imagine it stopping, you getting off, and hearing a knock at my door... I can't even tell which direction it is going, but I still imagine each bus contains you.

even though you prefer the 5 despite the hill...

I know I don't actually want to see you... or I know that seeing you would kill us both. I know that this week has confirmed my decision... yet the firm hand of fear has set itself on my shoulder and won't let go. Fear that I will be alone forever; fear that I gave up the best thing to ever come my way; fear that I am fundamentally fucked up...

Another 31 passes... outbound I think. But no knock.

even though you prefer the 5 despite the hill...

I know you don't understand this and I wish you did. I wish you had've been able to investigate and do the research, rather than retreating into the disconnect world of victimization... I wish this week hadn't confirmed my decision, yet I thank the world that it did...

Another 31 arrives and stops... perhaps inbound this time. But no knock.

even though you prefer the 5 despite the hill...

Another 31; another regret; another disappointment; another moment of devastation...

I pray that one day your path will lead you down a road of understanding so that you will see that you need to do as much work on this as I do... even though you're the one who prays... I pray that one day you will see a glimmer of understanding on the horizon... perhaps just over the hill while on the 31... 

even though you prefer the 5 despite the hill...

Love, me

I realized today that I have been waiting for what seems like forever to live...

waiting to get my Phd

waiting for the grading to be done

waiting to get a Tenure Track job

waiting to lose another 5 pounds

waiting for you.

But what am I waiting for? What rests at the end of this line?

I guess that's why I hate the morning after, even when I am in a relationship, which, incidentally, I am almost always waiting for... I hate waking up and waiting.

Waiting for the morning sex to be over

waiting to shower

waiting for the coffee

waiting for the conversation not to be awkward...

So I sit here, done with all my work, waiting for you to call, thinking about all the waiting I do in my life...

When I was 3 or 4... I remember sitting waiting for something... what, I do not know.... The preschool teacher said "oh, Cora is so patient!" It was the first time I heard that word so I didn't know if I should be happy or sad. I wasn't old enough to judge the tone of her voice, and you never really can tell from that anyway... teachers of young children often master the art of disguising their tone of voice so it sounds completely pleasant regardless of the message.... adults in relationships often suffer the opposite problem.... It was then that I learned that patient was a good adjective. I was to wait and be patient.

It was much later that I learned that patient is a very bad noun, despite its connections to the adjective... Alas, I digress as I wait, which I often do when I am waiting...

So, I wait here, which seems incredibly passive, but is actually quite active when waiting consists of working 80-100 hours a week, trying to make this work, and working out in general.

I am done waiting....

Done waiting for you decide you want to do this,

Done waiting for them to decide they want to do this,

Done waiting to decide if I want to do this.

Done waiting for you to trust me.

Done waiting. 

I unfold my body like a crumpled up piece of paper; each nook and cranny containing a story of you or her or him or them. No matter how much I try to press it neatly, changing my priorities to match what I think is needed, it refuses to lay flat.

Instead the wrinkles just get deeper with hope; thick with doubt; treacherous with realization. I still spend my nights... you still spend your free moments...

On some level, my eyes reach for the wrinkles, taking solice in the herstories contained in each crevice. I've said before that I am more functional at my worst that she is at her best, but I am not sure that's the right idea. Perhaps it is just that our paths curve in different directions; each of us sometimes not caring who gets lost in the process. Not caring if we are the latest casualty. 

So, I look down at the ground, searching for a crumb left as a sign... looking for anything left to guide me back... Wondering if there are signs and if I would recognize them if there are... wondering why I am ok with crumbs... wondering if I have become complaisant, and if so, how?
 
I remember when I first started on this journey. I felt so full. My packs contained more nourishment than I ever thought I would need. Yet, years and decades down the road, I feel drained empty; not sure where to look or where to go. It's like years ago, when we sat on that bench at 2 or 3am, trying desperately to connect; knowing in the back of our heads that it was a losing battle. So, we sat there and I said, "I am so deep, I can't even see which way is up." I was talking about depression, but it's applicable in this case too.  

So, I sit here alone, crumpled into a mass of something; what, I do not know... searching the threads of the carpet; scouring the floors of my path for just one crumb; one clue; one sign... knowing which way is up, but absolutely terrified to take the first step.

Today I went to the gym wearing your sports bra. It was the one you gave me after you got breast implants, causing it to be too small for you. It's pink and the perfect size for my natural breasts. It's pink and so different than anything I would buy for myself, yet it fits so perfectly that it is my favorite.

So,  I ran, feeling my breath fill my lungs, your sports bra holding my chest tightly.... in and out; in and out; in and out.... like the time we made out after too many vodka redbulls... grasping each other in panicked desperation for something to hold onto.

Do you remember that night at Girl Bar? We went there because I wanted to be around women and you knew the bartender. I think you had made out with her too, but probably because Jimmy Joe was involved.... as that was your name for the singer for that band who had a vineyard and doesn't drink but instead has orgies with tons of young and sometimes underage girls at his secluded home in Arizona or New Mexico.

We stood at the bar and there was a woman who knew you and was obsessed with you. She hit on you in a semi-creepy way, as I let my eyes wander around, searching for some butch to make my dreams come true. That girl who hit on you reminded me of my news reporter ex stalker, and I looked around some more, dissatisfied with the eye candy, but happy just to be with you... laughing and creating memories.

We danced and some gay boy stopped us to tell us that we were the sexiest women there and that we were the best dancers. You told me about how you had been a lesbian in High school and we went across the street to have another drink, just seeing the seen and being seen in WeHo.

When we got back to your place, you were disappointed. You wondered why no one had hit on you. I felt like I was in some kind of twilight zone, because all I remembered was people hitting on you. We laid on your living room floor, for what reason, I cannot remember... and for some reason I needed to kiss you. I needed to know what your lips would feel like on mine, and I needed you to feel the love I had for you....

It wasn't a romantic love or a sexual love... instead, it was more of a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof kind of love. Like when Jade and Carrie had an affair in an attempt to be with me. Or when he and I dated to be with her. You and I made out so that we could love you...
 
And like so many before and after, I did, but you never caught up. Instead, you just wondered why no one loved you... Instead, you hated you, trying ocassionally to fix you via implants, excessive working out, more photos, random starvation diets, and any man who would look your way...

and no matter how much I could love you, it wasn't enough...

So, I am left now with this pink sports bra... grasping onto my chest, my lungs, my breath, my grief...

in and out; in and out; in and out...

missing you...

After so long of this one-foot-in-front-of-the-other step-stepping, I look up to check in with my surroundings.

Like a hampster running contantly on a squeeky wheel, I just keep going and going and going; not aware that I am keeping everyone up with my perpetual motion; not aware that I am putting myself to sleep...

I look around confused.

Because lately I am not sure which direction is forward; which sentiments are nice; or what feels good. I'm not sure if I am meditating or falling to sleep; if you are making love to me or breaking up with me.

The letters feel completely jumbled in my head and I can't even seem to write complete words in the correct order. When I do manage to correctly scratch out a word in my roughly serial killer-esque chicken scratch, it doesn't follow the sentiment, and the next word is always out of order.

This is the fucked up mad libs in which I currently reside.
 
So, I just step back onto the wheel... one food in front of the other step-stepping until I hear the nauseating squeek of the wheel again, reminding me I am doing the right thing.

Or at least this thing, until something kicks me off of the wheel....