I drag on my second cigarette savoring the burn deep in my lungs as I consider you and what you've taken from my life. I look down at my feet and the floor under them and consider how absolutely absurd it is that every day I touch the cold hard ground, a muted and integral constant in my life - yet I can't even touch you once in a 5 year span.
I consider how I should intellectually give more thought to the ground who has never failed me - and kept me safe then I should give to you - a transient being in a temporary existence.
I think of the floor under your feet - and wonder where you are. I close my eyes and try to imagine your shoes as you walk on the stone through the town center, or your feet wet and bare standing in the shower half awake in the morning.
I take off my shoes and touch my feet to the wet earth - and hope that some how the living soil is connecting me to you. I pray that perhaps in that moment you've reached down and plucked a flower from the soil and our electricity a thousand miles away met if for only a second.
When I drive to the ocean and I put my feet in the wake I envision the wave caressing my calves washing away - across the Atlantic - and landing on your feet. Inevitably, I imagine your hands - which I despise - as they are never touching me. I see your feet wet in the cold irish water - and then I see your hands not far above -embraced with those of another woman - who is perhaps more deserving. I imagine her sweet smile in illuminated in the sun as she leans into you to find her place in the world.
And then I stop.
I shake my head.
I drag my cigarette.
I let it burn.
& I try my hardest to pretend that you aren't real.
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did you write this?
and youre a really great writer