“It comes and goes.”

Waking up next to a stranger. Sandpaper tongue. Why didn’t the alarm go off? I need to get out of this city. What time is it? Jump in the shower.

Water in rivulets on skin.

Bags under eyes.

Another day another dollar.

“It comes and goes.”

“It comes and goes.”

She muttered under her breath, looking down at the steam rising from her tea.
She hates her job. And her skin. It’s too fair and bruises too easily and won’t take to the sun.
Sometimes I love her/my skin. But when I do it’s never ‘mine’. It’s ‘hers’. It’s soft and yielding. It feels like a song.

“It comes and goes.”

He laughed and kept paddling. We were in the middle of the lake in Northern Michigan. Nothing but us and the loons.

The sun was setting fire to the horizon, and the flames were reaching up like starving children.

This is what is called peace and quiet.

And it’s perfect.

“It comes and goes.”

I said to the doctor. He pressed his stethascope against my chest and his brow furrowed in concentration. Whatever he was hoping to hear, apparently wasn’t going to show its face.

“You have to go back.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I can’t force you to. But I’m telling you, in my professional opinion, you have to go back.”
“I appreciate your time. Have a nice day.’

I grabbed my coat and left.

“It comes and goes.”

She looked so small staring up from her bed, her body entirely covered except for her tiny head, poking out from the top of the blankets. He stroked her forhead and smiled at her.

“It’s okay. I’m right here. I don’t mind. You try to go to sleep. I’ll sit right here.”
“You promise?” She knows he’ll go back downstairs the moment he thinks she’s sleeping. But I, no she, doesn’t like to admit that.
“I promise.”

She smiled and turned on her side, snuggling further into the pillow.

“It comes and goes.”

“Well, which is it? Is it coming or going right now?”

“It’s gone.”

“It comes and goes.”

She pulled off the road, buried her face on the steering wheel and started crying.

But the cookies she bakes are slowly getting better.
I think so, and so does she.

I dreamed about the power of words. How they can hurt and heal. When I woke from this reverie I had no problems deciphering the warning I was trying to give myself.
For some reason that I have yet to wrap my mind around, my opinion of other people is taken very seriously by everyone around me. I feel that I am a very understanding, accepting individual, but somehow this makes my opinion something actively sought after. I do have expectations of how people, no, decent human beings should act. I think the expectations are reasonable, when sometimes, I guess they aren’t. It seems to me like common sense you don’t sleep with your best friend’s lover, unless of course your best friend is involved. But somehow, without fail, I seem to hurt people with these expectations. This is something I have come to accept, but not understand. I’m sure this makes me sound cocky, but I assure you, it’s not something I want. Or something I like. And again, I don’t understand it at all. But there it is.

“Tell me what you really think of me.”
And I say, “I love you, so what does it matter?”
People aren’t perfect, and I don’t expect perfection, but I wouldn’t be around you if I didn’t love you. It doesn’t matter if I think you are hot headed, or somewhat irrational. Or ______. Those are just words. Words that will hurt you. The point is I love you to death, so why do you want so desperately for me to point out what I feel are your faults?

I dreamed of the power of words. How they can hurt and heal. When I woke from this dream I had no problems deciphering the warning I was trying to give myself. Yet, that same day I hurt a wonderfully good friend with my words, unintentionally. I have seen him cry once. I’ve seen him choke up once. And I have felt terribly guilty for the last two days knowing I caused the second time. I guess I should start by saying he doesn’t have a very high self esteem. There are only a few things he will admit he’s good at or proud of. There are only a few things he admits he cares about.

“I know you think I’m close-minded about this.” he said.
There are those ugly adjectives again.

“I never said that,” I said.

“But I know that’s what you think.”

And I know you’re asking me and not telling me. You’re not certain. You’re asking me to confirm your fears. To hurt you with those stupid words. But I can’t lie to you. This is what I think of you and I am sorry.

But nothing comes out. Instead I just look away and let you choke on those words. And I can’t look at you because of this empty feeling in my stomach. Because if I look at you will cry and I’m suddenly painfully aware of how much you value my opinion of you. But why is it always the negative they value? The negative they want? Someone please explain this to me. I’m sitting here choking on these words between us and if I reach out and touch you then I will break you and you will spend the next hour crying in my arms when all the feelings in the world I have are love for you. I love you. Do you hear those words? No. All you hear is close minded and ______.

I could not sleep that night knowing you were a room away and broken. We are better today. We’ve hugged and touched and smiled. But I wish you would hear me when I say the good words. When we giggle and I say, “I love your sense of humor.” If I knew you heard the good words then maybe I wouldn’t be so hesitant to say what I’m thinking all the time.

Do you know how stunning you are sitting in the dark with just the light from the monitor pooling against your cheekbones?

I would like to voice those good words because I know those cheeks would turn red and you’d feel warm inside your tummy instead of empty. And so would I. We could feel good together if you would just listen.

Morn runs to me and between my legs when the lawnmowers are going outside. I find this irresistibly cute and so I scoop him up and give him treats.