appreciate what you have

EmilĂ­ana Torrini – Heartstopper

It used to be that I heard certain songs and a sweet pang of memory would spring through my body, uncoil between my legs, hold my hands like grace, and I would unconsciously close my eyes, breathing in what it was like to be there with him, the depth and width of us. The liquid vowels of his voice, the way he said my name, as if it were a word made of quicksilver instead of a single clumsy syllable, drenched in adoration the same way he could pull me out of my body by sliding his fingers through the roots of my hair.

It seems now that I can’t relate, that I’ve drifted too far away. All I’ve got left is a cavity where all that used to be, hollowed out enough I can shout into it and not even hear a replied echo. Where did those mellow afternoons go? Those fantastic grins? Does this happen to everybody? I look up the names of the chemicals responsible for love and wonder if I’ve just been running out. Somewhere I have a photo of myself that I’ve never looked at, sitting alone in his bed, destroyed, taken the same day I left a line of poetry in lipstick on his mirror, the same one I wrote on his skin in ink the day he left me, the only evidence I could bear to leave, even though I knew he would wash it away.

you know it’s bad when I’ve gone pale (that said, thank you for dinner)

The Periodic Table of Typefaces

So there in the restaurant, we’re happy and chatting. Good conversation with good company stretches on forever in front of us, much like the demolished plates of food covering the table, when disaster strikes with sensory missiles of purified hate, as the waitress passes in assassin black carrying a serving of something piscine.

I fled for the door faster than light. Outside and away, fresh air, into the rain. Standing still, clutching the rail, letting it hold my weight, I felt better immediately. Then it started to snow. To hell with this, I thought, held my breath and ducked back in. When I left again, still wracked with gut wrenching spasms of fighting reverse peristalsis, I was more prepared. I had my coat, a shawl, two scarfs, and a book. Fifteen minutes or twenty went by before everyone else had finished. A good read.

Now I’m at home, randomly doubling up as my body attempts to cough up the sick rich smell of fish. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, and I think I just tasted blood. It’s bloody lucky I didn’t accidentally eat any or else I would be too sick to sit up enough to write. My entire weekend would be a miserable write-off. I would be in the bath, poisoned, running hot water, shivering, and possibly hallucinating my death.

Oh sushi, my bane, how vile, how cruel, that you are always the most popular gig in town. You look so damned pretty, glittering just so, arranged delicately, carefully, dotted with a gemstone snow of roe, and yet you make my stomach attempt to turn inside out like a starfish’s stomach, wet and acid and deadly.

Just a note to the internet: Don’t call me tomorrow during the morning.