ninasdrafts

I want to pretend this could last forever. You and me. Half-closed curtains. Sunlight filtering into the room, painting your face golden. Your eyes closed. Mine wide open, fearing that if I so much as blink you’ll slip out through the door. You called me a good time and I used to think that was all there was to it. I used to think it was all I could be. To you. To anyone.
But this morning is different. I blink and you’re not gone. I try not to breathe too hard so I don’t wake you, but after a while I understand that you won’t disappear if I make a sound. Maybe I want to be more than a good time, I think. More than held back, texts left on read, cancelled weekend plans to make more room for you. For a possible you. I never know if you’ll call. More than “it’s not like that”. Because maybe it is and for once I’m not the problem.
I want to pretend this could last forever. You and me. Hearts carved half-open but souls completely guarded. The kind of feeling you give to me when we lie in the semi-darkness, not talking. Because I know that if I say something things might change. But they might change for the better. They might change in a way I wouldn’t have expected. Maybe I can be more than a good time. Maybe I can be someone’s all the time. Someone’s forever. Maybe that someone just isn’t you.

someone’s all the time / n.j.

I remember. The night was still warm, the grass underneath my feet soft. You pulled me closer. You wanted to talk. I was tired of talking. The apology sat on your tongue, the one I deserved, but I didn’t want to hear it. I asked you to tell me something worthwhile instead. You said you’d really tried to move on, but you ended up looking for me in everyone you started seeing. In everyone you talked to. In everyone you kissed. You said you’d never met anyone quite like me. I shouldn’t have given in, should’ve told you that you’d had your chance, many of them. But this was the kind of attention I’d been starving for. The kind of warranty I’d demanded, even though there would never be an insurance. And true enough, a few months later I found you were slipping away from me again. Slowly but steady, like a river current. Your cups disappeared from my cupboard. Your shirts vanished from my drawer. Your hand slid out of mine. You might not remember it, now that you’re happy, now that you’ve moved on - for real, this time. But I will remember. I’ll always remember what you said to me that night.

remember that night / n.j.

For the longest time, you were the only person to notice the storm in my eyes. It’d been building up for months, for years, but you never tried to run. You never even tried to calm it, to keep it caged in. You knew there would come a time for me to erupt, were aware you might get caught in the crossfire. But you held my hand through it all. And when it was over, you left me to fend for myself. Even though it hurt, I guess in a way it was the right thing to do. You stayed to let me heal and you left to set me free.

you left to set me free / n.j.

You know the saying “home is not a place, it’s a feeling”. But what if it’s a person? What if I’ve been told all my life not to make a home out of people but I never listened? Worse - what if I failed miserably every time? What if I told you I got used to taking up residence in chests and lungs and hearts? That I learned how to fall asleep with someone else’s bones wrapped tightly around my own? No home of mine has ever been permanent. Safe. I’ve had roofs collapse beneath torrents of rain, had windows shatter in the middle of winter. Walls I’d thought stable turned out to be built on shaky foundations and crashed down around me. But even when I was left in the ruins of what once was, it never took me long to open another set of doors. To move into a new home, not caring if it was temporary, abandoning my baggage in the hallway. And that’s what makes it so dangerous, I think. That’s what sets us up to fail. I can no longer be alone with my thoughts. With myself. But what am I supposed to do?
I’ve never felt at home in any place, I think. Not if it wasn’t filled with people I love.

what if home is a person? / n.j.

When I ask the universe to send me little signs of you, I don’t have to keep my eyes and ears open. They’re not hidden. You’re everywhere. I notice you in the smell of freshly made coffee, or a whiff of perfume I pick up in the streets. I notice you in a word I read on an advertising space or in a song playing on the radio or in a conversation I pick up on a barely occupied train. I notice you in an echo of laughter ringing through a room that otherwise would’ve been empty. You’re in a ray of sunlight warming my cheek and in the first drop of rain hitting the pavement on a hot day.
I don’t even have to focus to notice you in everything all around me. I don’t have to listen. I don’t have to look out for you. That’s the magic, I guess: knowing you’re not gone, not really. Believing it with every fibre of my being. And on days where I forget, I can return to the places where I know I’ll find you and I will never be disappointed.

you’re everywhere / n.j.

I don’t need someone to open doors for me.
I need someone who helps me guard my doors. Someone who locks them, if need be, who hides the keys and helps me find them in case I need them back. Someone who helps me break them open, splinters in palms and all.
I don’t need someone who shows me the way. I need someone who will walk down whatever route I choose, whatever path I set my sights on, holding my hand. Someone who weighs in with their experience, but ultimately lets me make the decision. Someone who lets me take the next step alone, if I feel like it.
I need someone who allows me to be my own guiding light. Someone who believes in me on days where I don’t know who I am anymore. When I look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at me, I need you to remind me who I am, who I was, once. Without you. Before I knew you. And who I am with you now. Who I can be, even if you leave.

guiding light / n.j.