This post is an excerpt from Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity. The full essay is available in the book, which is currently available for pre-sale here.
Call me crazy
Shit at least you call me
It’s freezing outside, but it is sub-arctic between us. And I wish the airport weren’t so close because I need more time to think and talk and plead my case. And I wish it weren’t Valentine’s Day weekend because then this wouldn’t feel so cliché. And I wish it weren’t a slow airport morning so I could just drop you off without having to get out of the driver’s seat and stumble through a goodbye. And I wish that just you touching my back didn’t feel so electric because maybe then this moment would not feel so dead. But it did. So it does. And I am silly puddy in your hands. I don’t get it. I never will. Two years will pass and I will still wonder just what the hell all of that was. It won’t make a lick of sense, but the volt that jolts through me anytime you pop up reminds me that some people always remain dangerous and delicious. Every time I hear Diced Pineapples, I think of that debilitating ride to the airport and I’m grateful that we could at least both hum along to that song. It was our greatest common denominator in a moment jumbled by all of the words on our two separate pages. Our bodies spoke a lingua franca all weekend, and then we went mute. But, every time I hear that song, I think about you.