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....