My fingers burn sometimes as I remember the promise I made, how little it means by now, and how could it be any different if you let me down so much. This arm is taking a toll on my mental health, this mental health is halting my creativity, which goes into a "devil's loop" like the Germans say, and all I really want is her embrace.
Sometimes I open my short travel's pouch and it smells just like your make-up bag, the one that held all the wonders of my life, a treasure with the warmest scent of lipstick and fake eye-lashes. I'm making puddles again, drop by drop on this table my arm is resting painfully, uncomfortably.
I see clearly how I'm -still, desperately looking for home. Why else would I have wanted to talk to Andrew so strongly? For the glimpse of 2018, for he has what, a part of me, yearns for: a home in someone else.
Don't worry baby boys, I know better than that, but building inside one's own heart is slow, learning construction work by practice brings a lot more downs than ups, and we are earthquakes zones. Rebuilding every three to six months is constant work.
I was calm for almost a week, but not entirely. Their naked bodies halfway in the water, and your smile at them when they were close by haunts me, that satisfaction, that complicity. I think this happens every once in a while, or so has life showed me: November last year at McDonald's, I was dressed in orange, on that big bulky bike and that white, not-aesthetically pleasing helmet, as I saw her. Beautiful, fit legs, an ass that would make anyone hard, long black hair, braided into perfectly neat strings, a face so symmetric Da Vinci would have bowed, and her glowing, umber skin.
I was alone then, but the process was almost entirely the same, it led to the same outcome of self-doubt and self-hate.
The situation was different then, I had just started my garden and was trapped in an abusive marriage. Today, my garden is thriving, parts of it at least; some I still need to learn to tend. And I am freely flowing between loves and wars, but still, I get caught in the weeds that refuse to leave. No matter how much I pick them, how much I plant, the edges of my garden are filled with dry, tangly weeds.
That time it took 3 months, maybe this time it will take less. But this home I'm building will never be done. A never-ending work in progress is what we are.