I watch the smoke, of your lit cigarette waft seductively through the cold night air.
The burnt ashes, and the musk of well worn leather coat, slide through my finger tips.
It's November, and I foolishly tried to impress you, with a skirt that is too short, and heels that are too high.
We were young, naive, and dressed the part of two fresh faced children trying to be a rugged film noir detective, and a femme fatale. However, we were desperately, and earnestly in love.
I was a self declared academic warrior, bound by duty, and filial piety.
You were a reckless savant, diving into whatever adventure you could get your hands on.
You were riddled with injected needles, poorly healed scars, and the deep unbridled energy of a million faces.
I was very small, very plain, and very trapped.
You got to play the part of the rebellious hero, and I naively thought you were my heaven sent catalyst, that would make my dreams come true.
I remember that thick muggy summer afternoon. It smelled of fresh asphalt, car exhaust, and weather worn pages of trashy romance novels. We decided to meet up in the garage of a mutual friend's house, because we were the two voices of reason among a sea of hair brained artists.
I could feel the salt from my sweat, trickle down my thighs, as the rusty metal fan continuously blew warm air into our faces. The chattering of adolescent voices mingled with the clattering of cheap printer paper exchanging hands, and unbridled laughter, as our glasses clinked; full of sticky lemonade.
I found your voice sultry
I found your candor enticing
And I was desperate to prove my own worth
Through dimly lit conversations, accompanied by our computer screens, to late night drives through cicada filled fields, I let myself drown in my our own romantic tale.
I let the naivety of young love, and the warm glow of hope lull me to sleep.
I miss it.
I remember the rows of half filled coffee cups, my raw hands folding your clothes, and my knees aching from scrubbing the floor.
I remember the cold winter nights, where I'd stare at my reflection in the bus window, trying to ignore the many hands attempting to grope my body.
I remember being locked up in filth and squalor, my spine twisting, my muscles suffering from atrophy and my throat raw, from holding in my thoughts.
You were a never ending game of Russian Roulette, each morning I went through the motions of an obedient maid, mother, prostitute, and therapist. Never knowing which person or role I was going to face today.
Your hands were cold, and lifeless as you held the small of my back; dressing me up in expensive dresses at cocktail parties. I'd pin up a smile and would obediently sit in your lap, while you sat at the poker table, pretending I wasn't there.
I don't know what happened.
Eventually I grew numb of emotion and returned to my well practiced catatonic state; my faculties exhausted.
I dreamed of fairy tales filled with wonder and splendor. Magical nights kissed by the moonlight, and an endless sea of stars. I would dream of the ocean, engulfing me in her grand blankets of brine and seaweed, intermingling with the iron my bloody wounds would provide her.
This was how I wanted to die.
I confided this secret to you, in broken short breaths; punctuated by my raw nose sniveling the mucus dripping down my upper lip. You told me I was the most beautiful, when I cried.
We made a pact that night.
You chided me about my inefficient plans of self destruction.
You always have.
Claiming your tincture of poisons would be a surefire way of going to the other side.
Statistically I would be more likely to make it, and you wanted none of that.
If we were to go, we would go together.
How romantic you said
How manipulative I thought
But I forced that red flag down, with a large dose of candy flavored medicine, and the desperate hope that you were the prince I dreamed of as a child.
What a load of bullshit
Here's the thing about fairy tales
They conveniently gloss over the tense silences, the clenched fists, and the fear of falling headfirst down a cliff.
They conveniently ignore your own personal story, and how your partners must intermingle with it, in a precarious, but well tended dance.
They conveiently forget that you are your own person, with your own hopes, dreams, and desires, and once you find someone the timing is crucial.
I still believe in soulmates, but I don't believe in one.