quality texts i’ve sent today include:
"everyone knows how to funk up a chicken"
i just wrote “how does macbeth feel after seeing banquo’s goat?”
"It’s such a shame," she said, "that there are so many songs about romantic love and nearly nothing about this."
This is us, huddled together on my bed, the pink glow of my lamplight coasting the walls like it’s always Christmas time somewhere. We have just spent hours tracing the path of our friendship, mystified, reading old email chains, remembering first, second, third meetings. The times when love felt easy and inconsequential. So wholly different from the heavy sturdiness of commitment. Sitting in the quiet of my room, more aware of this love than we have ever been before.
My heart is a mosaic, bit by bit built, bit by bit destroyed. The art project of my life. There are books on my shelf that didn’t belong to me and now they are mine. Old birthday presents, scribbled messages inside the jacket covers. Love is hard when it stops. If it stops. Love is hard when things don’t seem to be happening. Isn’t love always happening?
My friend who cried the day she read my poetry book, real hot tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said, “I’m so happy for you.” I feel the same burning in my chest whenever I think about saying goodbye. It’s been years. It’s been days. I hate sleeping alone. If there is a life without a village of good neighbors, friends who promised to babysit my children, the girls who predicted the face of my husband, I don’t want it. My created heart trembling anytime I think about how lucky I am. The best kept secret. There are so many songs about romantic love and nearly nothing about this.