I’m going to take with me the cotton from your skin.
The one that cloaks me.
I’m going to take with me the electricity from your lips.
The one awakens me.
I’m going to take with me the strength from your arms.
And the love they give me.
I’m going to take with me the purity from your eyes.
The one that caged me.
I’m going to take with me a bottle of your words.
To remember how you fed me.
I’m going to take with me the strings from your heart, and the sand from under your nails from where me met. I’m going to take with me the thunder at the end of your tongue and the story we wrote in the cupboard of your ribcage.
I’m going to take with me your spirit tangled in the spirals of your hair.
A month ago I learned that no matter how often you say “it won’t happen to me,” it still will. My eyes have been heavy. I go through each motion in the day with the promise of sleep approaching as a bribe for productivity and interest. I find my fingers dialing numbers they shouldn’t. I crave the inhilation of smoke, feeling the tar wrap itself around my lungs-exhaling the pleasure of cheap release. Stress subsided with the routine flick of ash.
I hold the defense of “I’m leaving…” clutched to my chest as armor. Something so much more waiting behind a simple phrase.
To leave it all behind and return to something more. Or to leave it all behind and return to what I will have to rebuild.
I used to think love meant that you had to permanently glued to every physical and internal movement. That separation, was not space it was distance. And now, as I have entered somethingand that in the last year and 3 months has continuously progressed and stood still, gone backwards, and then progressed again, I have learned to let everything I feel slide gently off my arms and run gently down my palms-keeping only the deepest necessities connected at the ends of my fingers-a new distance that keeps each new day entering our holographic future afloat in suspense.
On Tuesday I bought a ticket to South America for seven months. I’ve been planning this trip, talking about it, wanting it, begging for it, fighting for it, for almost a year. And now, I’m holding the next two months before I leave in my hands and suddenly I don’t want it as bad. Well…no…that’s a lie. I do, I want it with everything in my bones but what I don’t want is to leave everything I love behind. I don’t want to come back forgotten, I don’t want to see the love of my life with another girl and I don’t want to have to start a new life when I just had to for 7 months. I made everything about this trip, about me. It was my turn to have my adventure and it is. But I never considered what I could leave behind and what I couldn’t get back. I walked around so triumphant- that I am setting myself up for this big extravagant-soul-searching-journey that I became so caught up in what it meant for myself and I failed to consider what it meant for my friendships; my love life. I’m hardly scared to leave, but I’m already scared to come home. The world doesn’t stop when you are full filling your own personal endevours and I think the magnitude of that reality just came and slapped me in the face.
Lover, lifer, writer. Journalism student, and Vancouver freelancer. This is my personal blog with a lot of my own poetry and intimate entries. I am continuously inspired by successful, talented and innovative women, and I try to reflect that as much as possible. I hope you enjoy.