Romance in Michigan

The first time I formally met J.T. was on my walk home from school when I was 15. I remember how he said my name aloud: "Aimee Jolouise?"

He was sitting on the front porch of his home, the afternoon autumn sun beaming down on him. All the houses on that street are small houses and his was no exception.

"Are you going straight home? Its beautiful out, and I have something I'd like to show you."

I hesitated, and then walked over to him, "oh yeah? Like what?"

He jumped up, "follow me!"

Teenaged, and rebellious, I followed him into the muddy cornfield in his backyard. My feet began to sink and I cried out in protest, but he was walking quickly so I abandoned my shoes and followed behind him.

I suppose sometimes its better to say nothing. I was in the company of a stranger, we were in a forest, tip-toeing barefoot along side a river. I tried to read the expression on his face. He looked peaceful, like this was where he belonged.

He jumped down from the bank onto a sandbar crafted by the river's current. I followed and my feet sank into the cold sand. He was searching for stones to skip. I looked into the icy-clear water and noticed a dark black stone. It reminded me of a trip my father took me on when I was little and a stone I had kept that had been smoothed by the water of Lake Michigan. I reached down and picked it up, squeezing it in my palm.

"J.T.?" I asked. He looked up at me and I handed him the stone and then skipped back up to the bank and tried to find a path around a thicket. He grabbed my hand and showed me the way through a patch of sumac trees and into a clearing of golden grass.

He lay down on his back, and I followed suit, making eye contact with sky.

Some memory, some simpler time in Michigan followed with romance and adventure and ending with bitter resentment. When they're done with you, it is just that.

They are done.

Jane and Grover

"Ok, the way I see it, if we were an old couple, dated for years, graduated, away from all these scholastic complications, and I reached over and kissed you, you wouldn't say a word, you'd be delighted, probably, but if I was to do that now it'd be quite forward, and if I did it the first time we ever met you probably would hit me."

"What do you mean?"

"I just wish we were an old couple so I could do that."

Punching, Hitting, Scratching

When I walked outside this morning, something had changed. I thought at first it was the lukewarm arm that met my face, or the lack of cars on the road, but I was walked farther up the hill, I realized that the birds were out.

The birds were singing.

I'm not sitting in a cardboard box. I'm listening to Waltz #1, over and over again, trying to deal with my feelings. It doesn't matter that my mind is stuck somewhere West of here, it doesn't matter how broken off I feel because I wasn't put on this earth to hurt people,

Or to break wine-glasses in a dark living room.

I can't say more. I can't write more. I want this to be over. I don't deserve to feel guilty. I don't deserve anyone.

10 things I hate about me.

First of all, I am not being pessimistic.

I sat with my head buried into my backpack today and realized a bright future for myself. If I can organize a blood drive, a concert, a protest, whats standing in my way? I saw people who looked to me for directions, for the next step. Its egotistical, or its healthy ego, I'm not sure. I'm not ready yet, but everyone is leaving me so I'm going to have to step up.

Its gonna be quiet next semester.

Its just those little things about yourself that if you told people they would say "ew..."

Like that I don't wash my hands after I use the bathroom.

Or those things about yourself that if you told people, they would know that you are more than a blood-drive, or a student activist...

You are evil, pure-blooded evil.

So everyday I remind myself how good my life is and how much I love Luke and all of my friends and family...so I can forget that I am pure-blooded evil.

Last Night (June 09)

I've never driven at 4 in the morning before. The sky is blue, the birds are out, the air is fresh, and I am not sad.

This is me crawling into bed at 5 AM, with greasy hair and un-brushed teeth, thinking of my last night with Luke.

He is not special, he is not unique, and neither were the others. But like all the rest I cared for him, and hung on his every word, and told him my darkest fears, while he filled my head with music and movie trivia.

We sat by the mighty Merrimack on the spot of concrete that Jon and I had chosen not 2 months before. "I sat here once," I mentioned. He didn't care. He lay, staring upwards at the pink sky, lips slightly parted, contemplating the light pollution. He was maybe 6'2 with shaggy blond hair and a flannel jacket over a blue tee-shirt. I was shivering from the chill of the wind. He didn't notice. My pocket watch told me it was 1AM.

The river looked calm and we repeatedly practiced Numerology. I taught him everything I knew.

By the time my clock had struck 2AM, we were tiptoeing across an abandoned suspension bridge. The air was muggy and smelled of natural gas. I looked up as I walked next to him towards the sky, towards the green lines of the bridge, somebody's bridge, some town's bridge, left to never be crossed, and felt the beams under my fingers with their gigantic bolts and green finish.

Then it was 3AM and a freight train was passing in front of my car. We rolled down my windows and turned down the music to listen to it hum against the rails. "I want to know where its going." He giggled and made a snide remark about my obsession with trains.

It was 3:30 AM when he grabbed my hand and I had to politely explain to him that I was never going to be his. "You're 3 months too late."

I made him pinky swear he would be my friend. I made him promise this wouldn't be the end.

Its the end. But for the sake of every Brett Boland in the entire world I have promised to "NEVER HURT ANOTHER SOUL"

I have the scars to prove I mean it.

Relapse (July 09)

Today I visited January in my mind.

Passing through snowflakes, over an ice-covered driveway, and up a stairwell. There, behind a white door, I stood in a peacoat with brown arm-warmers, one hand on the door knob, squeezing as hard as I could. Should I leave? He was yelling in the next room. The apartment was half empty. They were leaving. It was cold and blank. His screams echoed on the walls. Should I leave?

I drove by his apartment building a few weeks later and saw his couch in the dumpster. I thought of being asleep on it, face pressed against the gold and black floral pattern, a pillow between my knees.

I even remember the last time I saw you. March 5th, two days after your 22nd birthday, you pranced out to my car wearing that stupid fucking smile and that blue and red jacket and kissed me on the lips. I took you out to dinner, shutting down your every word. My heart was filled with a bitter resentment, pulsating, needles covering its surface. I took you home and didn't answer your calls until late that Saturday.

"Is this going to work out?" you asked.

"No. I'm sorry"

"That's alright. Goodnight."

Its not January, Its July and I'm on the highway. I dial your number. You don't pick up, and I listen to your voicemail.

I hope you never call me back.

Into you like a train

The last time I saw you, we were sitting on the edge of a bed, shifting our feet nervously, going through papers. You didn't look so different at all. Though maybe leaner. I wonder if I too looked leaner, older, or wiser. You didn't tell me either way.

I kept my hands busy in the kitchen. I was afraid of becoming distracted or telling you how much you had changed my life. Sentimentality is all, we're still friends, and we can see one another whenever.

The Pioneer Valley isn't that far away.

I slept with my foot wedged in between your back and the couch and woke up feeling aged. The field outside was frosty, and my body ached from the lack of sleep. You hardly stirred as I peeled myself out from the back of the couch.

I walked away clutching a railroad spike like it was my last living memory.