By Grace

By the grace of whoever might be holy I met you. And so you were. Just. There.

There were days when you and I would spar at words over judges tables. Those days, I couldn’t imagine sparing with anyone else but you. But we were young, and you were beowolf and I but a petty attempt at shel silverstein. Our poetry was not our own, and we were but mirrors of the people we wanted to be…You something guarded and secret. Myself veiled in humor and drama….

And years past. But somehow we were brought together again. Monologues messed up. Poetry botched. Parents unexpected visits in tiny apartments. Virgina Woolf and secluded kisses. Those moments were hard to repeat and began our vicious cycle of the “what ifs” and “what could have been’s”.

It was Virginia, she was the woman who brought us together. We spoke of hidden waves and flowers bought. We hoped that these words would seal some binds between us…but oh we were mistaken. Visits across rivers were made. Kisses were exchanged, but still that was not enough to keep us together.

One spring we spent a few nights in a king sized bed. Opposite sides. Cues missed. Kisses lost. Drinking mike’s hard lemonades on playgrounds that reminded us that we were no longer children, but at the same time, we weren’t adults. An impass. Childhood and adulthood lay between us, and so we sat on playgrounds hoping that answers would spring forth. The picnic benches were not for us, but neither was the spiral slide. Somewhere in the gravel was where we belonged. But afraid we sat, alcohol in hand, silence ringing school bells somewhere.

Another summer I spent ten hours driving to you. Hours on the road to the middle of nowhere. And there you were—broken, shattered, perfect. We had a taste then, but the morning left nothing but tequila regrets etched in our palms, where love should have been. We shopped for heirloom tomatoes, and gleefully watched a juices spat between our lips. But both were too shy to explain why and how these came.

And now, years later I still wonder what should have happened. What could have happened.

I remember lying in your arms just praying for a miracle.

Those were stolen kisses meant for no one but us.

Phone calls begging for answers.

Messages. Emails. Dreams. Words. Lost.

Somedays I wish I could lie in those arms again. Older, wiser. More us. The us that could’ve told us back then that heirloom tomatoes, tequila, love, and Woolf were one in the same.