I sit at the end of the pier and remember how you kissed me like you had to kiss me. That was a part of the story. How you kissed me like you'd die if you didn't. And I am a girl who does not like to be kissed or touched without expectation and I was so glad when you kissed me because I thought I would die if you didn't.
Then I wonder who else you have kissed like you couldn't stop yourself, and the brilliant memory fades. I don't have many left, these days.
I took your hand that first night, do you remember? I lay my head on your shoulder in the rain. I am not a girl who touches. Did you know that when I reached for you? I wonder if you knew that I had never reached for someone's hand before, if that would have meant more to you.
I was writing you a story, a beautiful tragedy, my story, but I walked very far and the cool lake air is blowing it from my mind and leaving only traces.
I want to look at the timeline and see the mark in black ink where you decided you didn't love me. Somewhere between that time I reached for your hand, and that day I told you I missed you more than anything, you marked the page.
You decided you would go on to love others. Slim girls who love poems and girls with bright whore lips who love music and more - who will they be? What image will they fit for you? What image did I fit - who were you for me, who was I to you?
Somewhere in that timeline you decided my story didn't matter. Where did that happen? Because I never stopped being the girl who reached for you. The girl who fled love wanted to go to war for you. I want to ask you why. It's in my mind from waking to sleeping. Why? Why did I cease to matter?
Would you have been callus if you could have been in my mind? If you felt my insides too when you marked the page with black ink and reached inside and twisted and turned and plucked and pulled because you were bored (I guess?) and it became a game to you. If you could have felt the way everything in me swelled when you sometimes reached for me too, or when you turned to see where I was when I was behind you, or when I kissed the moles on your neck, could you have done that?
You decided I was not your story and so I did not matter, but this story was a girl who does not love but she reached for you that night. It was a beautiful story- a hard one maybe - but my mind reels that you did not see its beauty and importance. That you did not nurture it so it could bloom in a thousand colors. What a gift I tried to give you, Dorian, how could you never see what I was offering?
It is dark and the corn-silk colored moon is slim as your other girls in the sky, and there is a cloud of silence around me. I am a ghost, I can move unseen and quiet and barefoot. I have words in my mind but the wind is blowing them away. Masts are creaking in the water and they are me, they are a part of this, they disguise my silent passing. In the safety of being unseen I am myself again. I sit and stare into the endless water, splashed with moon, and think of all the things beneath and I feel strong, not frightened.
I am a night creature and this is mine. I am the water, I am the dark and the moon, I am the creaking masts and a million hot particles in the air; how stupid you were to think so little of me when I am the whole night.
I felt bad for the girl in my story as I walked here, but I walked farther than my sadness, and I am too much wild to be sad when I am free and the breeze is blowing you away. For a moment I wish you were here, being quiet and steady and strong with me, but you wrote yourself a new story to get away, and I like my calm soft night's tale too much to leave it.
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