this piece was stolen from me awhile ago. the girl I wrote it about did the stealing. I find it laughable now, whereas I was super pissed when it first happened. oh well, what is anything without some humor.



She, An adaptation of my own self, I feel. She is here, where as I am somewhere else. She is a story yet to be told, held briefly in the palms of my hands, across my fingers. She is the intertwined nature of my heart, pushing blood around, displacing energy to make me, me.
She. If I could reach the places that no one reaches. If I could touch the spots on her that no one else could. If I could carve a notch for every time she’s made me smile, into a different tree then I’d need every tree in the world.
And when they cut those trees down, as industry demands, I’d steal the wood and make chairs, and we could sit there, until our age catches up with us. And my hands would trace over the notches, time and time again, until it’s worn down and so am I.
If I could find the words to tell her, I would. And when I can’t, I’ll steal dictionaries and take random words and make them work. Replevy: To recover goods wrongfully taken or detained. For her affection taken, I’ll take it back and keep it safe. Horripilate: To produce a bristling of the hair on the skin. What she gives me when her hands meet mine, when her eyes meet mine, her breath meets mine. Liminal- relating to the point beyond which a sensation becomes too faint to experience. Something I hope she never feels, when she feels me.
And If I run out of words someday, I’ll just invent more, and each one will tell another story to her, and we’ll entangle ourselves in these words, lost in the literal translation of us. I’ll spend years trying to catch my breath when she looks my direction and years more trying to give her instances in which she has nothing to do but smile.
I’ll write her a card, every day, since the day we met, and I’ll fill them with prose, with moments I’ve caught and stored inside myself, like when I first felt that smile or when her skin first met mine, when I first felt her heart beat. When she first made mine race.
And It will continue to race, stolen cars inside my chest, the Indy 500 beneath my ribs. It will fight to escape and come out and say hello. Oh hey, this is me, this is what you’ve gotten, what you’ve taken, and stolen. What you’ve earned and hold. It’s a process you know, each day and minute another test of things.
And my heart will get back in the car and race to its next destination within our confinement and smile. Just smile.
Because it feels like it’s won.