you were tired from working all morning and driving all afternoon to see me and did I ever thank you for coming? and so we sat on my bed and talked and laughed and your eyes blurred and you put your head in my lap and your voice got softer and far away and I played with your hair and then you were fast asleep and I sat very still so you wouldn’t wake and I wanted to keep you and and and.

How I'd like to spend the rest of my days:

Paris. We live on the fifth floor of an old apartment building. A ceiling that’s crumbling in places and wooden floors. There isn’t much furniture. A table and three chairs in the kitchen. One ancient velvet couch. End tables. A writing desk. One floor lamp. A coffee table. Some crates. The only lavish piece is the bed. The only extravagance the hundreds of books stacked along walls. (Comme est seulement juste.) It’s early. I’m sitting on the window ledge looking over the park across the street. Cool air brushes through the thin fabric of the oversized dress shirt I wear. I have a notepad in hand. Or maybe I’m reading. Or sketching. Nothing serious. He is the true artist. A writer. Letting me read his work since the third time we met. He sits at his desk, typewriter alive beneath his long fingers. A little crooked. Never clumsy. The click of the typewriter mingles with the small voices drifting through the open window. He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. I look over, watch him take off his glasses and rub his eyes. He looks up at me. Green eyes fringed by black lashes blinking into focus. A light smile smoothes his thick brow. He stands. Goes to the tiny kitchen. Pours orange juice into a wine glass. Crosses the room. Hands the glass to me. Kisses the crown of my head. I put my things on the floor. Make room for him on the ledge. His hand on my thigh. My fingers lightly touching the inside of his wrist. Happy to sit quietly together in the slow morning hours.

fate. terrifies. me.

It’s incredible how essential timing is in daily life. Maybe it’s part of fate—if there is such a thing. This concept of fate is unsettling. How many times do we miss someone by a half hour? by thirteen seconds? Is it coincidence that we end up in the same location as those people we meet on a daily basis? How many times do those strangers become something much more? Coincidences or fate, these happenings are incomprehensible. And brilliant. Tragic, too—the stark difference between meeting and missing.

I relearned you in a dream.

My subconscious takes me down every path that leads me to you. Subconsciously, of course. It’s on my side. You and I were on the same side. In the metro car traveling beneath D.C. On the bench resting in the Roanoke mall. Laying in the Gladys roads after dark. My town, not yours. Now you tell me you’ll be coming to the place where I live. Not coming for me. But you’d always call for me. We talked about baby names late at night. On the phone for hundreds of minutes. All for fun. Playing pretend that was always a little real. My reality now: you aren’t within my vision. I want to see through the eyes of the people who surround you. I want to see you. I want to look and look and look and look. And look. Doesn’t matter that I have you memorized already. Thick eyebrows. The freckles in your green eyes. The way you’re proud of your full eyelashes when they stick together in the corners. The white flesh between your thumb and index finger in otherwise tanned skin. The veins in your wrists. Your slim fingers. The way you were proud of taking my hand as we were crossing the street, leaving the carnival. You’d tell me I’m being silly. I’d tell you I loved you for a long time.

Stop. Go.

There’s something amazingly compelling about limits. Knowing you have to stop—doesn’t that ever make you fight harder? Do you ever want to see how far you’ll go before you reach breaking point? I think it’s the thrill of not knowing. And the fear. I’m terrified of not knowing what is enough. It’s like that game girls and boys play. A girl sits beside a boy and he puts his hand on her leg. He starts at the knee. Slowly, he inches his hand upward. He keeps going. She doesn’t resist. His hands are steadily making their way up. She squirms out of the way just before he reaches that unspeakable bit of thigh. And there’s the limit. Sometimes I am the girl who does not move a muscle. I do not flinch when that roaming hand nears the upper thigh. It’s not for the gratification of that stupid boy. It’s for me. I will always dare myself to go beyond my limits. I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to be afraid of not doing enough or not being enough.

concept > reality.

I often like the idea of a thing more than the thing itself. I fall in and out of love with concepts every day.

no breathing.

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This is how long I held my breath while pushing the x key.
Gotta work on that lung capacity.

broken bones.

Do you remember when you broke your collar bone? We gathered our things and went to the hospital at the most normal pace. Unhurried. We drove the speed limit the whole way. Maddening. In the seat next to me, you were so small. The veins in your neck fed blue pallor into the rest of your skin. Your lips were the lightest possible shade of pink. You said you were cold. But I watched the sweat roll down your forehead, follow the line of your brow, and drip into your eyes; collecting in the thick clumps of your lashes. You were as still as I’d ever seen you. I talked. I joked. I tried to be gentle when I poured water into your mouth. We hit a pot hole in the same moment and I spilled it over your face. Sweat and water mixed and gave you the shakes. I couldn’t stop looking at you. Do you remember how small you were? I worried the sharp bone would poke through the skin at your neck, making a deadly incision. Blood and sweat and water mixed. But the bone remained rooted in place. Your skin stayed clean, intact. Blue and purple blotches formed around the swelling beneath that smooth skin. And you sat so calm with that broken bone. And I was so frantic with my broken heart to match.

don't make this inappropriate, people.

I love closeness. I love being pressed against another person. Granted, I retract that statement when I’m on a bus or a subway and someone is taking up my breathing room. But, as a general rule, I like being touched. Let’s not get dirty, here. Likewise, I want to touch everything. I like textures and the different feel of things. I like physical contact. If you look like you have nice, touchable hair or elbows or eyelashes, even, I’m gonna want to go for it. I won't, though. I try to respect personal space boundaries. But if I could, I would touch everyone. So when we’re squished together in the backseat of your car or you flop down beside me on the couch, I really don't mind.

maybe I'm anemic.

I've been exhausted all week. Why, you ask? I have no freaking idea. Really. I haven't done anything out of the ordinary. I haven't really done any strenuous exercise. So why, why, why am I so tired?? My mom suggested I might be anemic. So, naturally, I'm going with that. Now I don't know the first thing about anemia or if my symptoms match up, but humans generally like to have excuses so anemia will be mine this time around. Really, I'd much rather have a disease than be accurately diagnosed as a sloth- wouldn't you?
Moving on.
Spring is coming. I can feel it. And I am excited.
Next thing you know it'll be summer and I'll never ever be inside except for when I need to take a stroll down those refrigerated aisles of Smith's to get away from the hot hot Utah heat. But I ain't afraid. Do your worst, Utah. I just want to be warm for good.

KEEP CALM.

Patience is not a virtue of mine. I have a habit of making very sudden, very irrational decisions at a moment's notice. There is never any warning, either. I just think about something, get an idea into my head, and have to do it. I have to. If I don't follow through with these ideas, I'll go insane. It's ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I just need to learn to take a time out. Keep calm and carry on.

I get carried away.

I want to always be outside. I hate being shut up in my apartment for hours on end. Restless Bekah Syndrome is in full swing. So is Disenchanted Syndrome. Come on, baby, play me something like "Here Comes The Sun." This has been a disjointed post.

the married couple across the room...

they are quite similar in physical appearance. brown hair. glasses. wearing complimentary colors. they aren't particularly distinguishable. it fits. they look to be studying. happy just to sit together and do some schoolwork in the middle of a busy day. they look up every so often; say a few words, exchange smiles. two perfectly constructed puzzle pieces. the woman stands up to leave. she hesitates a moment, looking down at him. she pushes a piece of hair back into place behind his ear. such a tiny gesture. such a loud moment. no one else seems to notice. she bends over just enough to wrap her arms around his neck, kisses him on the top of the head. her lips move to form a few sentences. did she tell him she loved him? was she reminding him of a dinner invite that evening? or was she promising to kick his butt at tic-tac-toe upon her return? it doesn't matter much. he sits alone now. tapping his foot and glancing up every few minutes, waiting for her to reappear.

ache.

My bones ache to be in proximity to yours.

Is it cool with everyone if I post random things I've just jotted down that really make no sense? Ok.

fingers almost touch
cinder block scrapes
on the back of your hand
speechless
air that is too warm
and dust that grabs
at our throats
blink
to clear the
sentimental thoughts.

I feel it all.

I want to capture feelings and put them in jars. Every single one. And none of them will be labeled. Each day I’ll just pick a jar and feel whatever is inside. And I’ll allow myself to feel fully. I don’t think I ever allow myself that leisure.

For That Future Someone..

This is what it’s like. You help me see the cards I need to win a game of solitaire. I read aloud to you when your eyes are weak from staring at your computer. I give you the section of the newspaper that you like best. You give me a glass of orange juice to make sure I’ve had my Vitamin C. We’ll fold ourselves into piles of blankets and drink cocoa when it’s cold outside. We’ll lay in the rich, thick grass of late summer and talk about our childhoods. Rain, sunshine. Fevers, chills. Little courtesies, big aggravations. Always keeping each other in mind. You'll be the one to hold my attention.

this is the thing.

I don't think there can be love without sadness. Not the desperate, hopeless sadness that wraps itself around you and squeezes until you shut down. More of the hopeful sadness that allows you to grow. We must accept the love we are offered, even if that love does not entirely match our own.
Just saying.

I don't know why it takes so long.

I need some motivation. I mean, the attractive man in my English class only goes so far. This paper is not writing itself. My roommate's boyfriend is knocking on the door and she doesn't hear it. I'm not letting him in, sorry. It's not me he wants to make out with all night. These are the ramblings of a procrastinating college student. I feel very uninspired. Maybe that's not even it. Well, it's partially it. I'm not a cynical person, but I'm in rather a cynical mood. Sorry, baby. No motivation... I just want to eat a lot and watch movies. Truth. That mood when everything and everyone annoys you, that's me at the moment. Don't pretend that's never happened to you. Oh well. I'll listen to The Weepies and try to get my life in order. Gotta check myself before I wreck myself. Right?

Back to Life

I am the worst blogger. I just sort of gave up on this before I even tried it, but I'm back again. For my three followers. YES. More meaningful posts to come. Maybe.