A Beginning

I was. That is all I can think of right now, of the many things I was. I could be. That also plagues me, the things I could have been.

Before I was anything; I was a thought, a dream, perhaps a memory. My mother named me after her father who had died months before she met my own. I did not know him, and I never thought to ask my mother about my namesake. Now she’s gone. I’ll never know him; she never told me of him. And now she never will. I have tidbits, fractions of him from her: You comb your hair just like your grandpa. You have my father’s laugh, so loud and free. You get your smarts from my side of the family, you know; you’re grandpa is still the smartest man I have ever met. You’re a close second.

I could ask someone else about him. Well, I couldn’t. My mother was an only child and my grandmother died when I was in middle school. Anyone else who may have known my grandfather would not know him like my mother did. They would have known another part, another Richard Heron III. She loved him; I knew that. She also loved me, Richard Heron IV.

I don’t know if I deserved it.

There is a picture of my grandfather carrying my mother hanging in the hallway next to a picture of my mother carrying me. In the picture, he is smiling as prettily as my mother is. He, like my mother, was pretty. The pictures would be identical to each other if it weren’t for the difference in haircuts between father and daughter. Next to the two pictures is a glaring empty spot where another frame can easily fit, I can imagine that my mother would have liked to hang a picture of me with my future child there. I can’t imagine how out of place it would look. I took after my father, a large and handsome man. I’ve held a baby exactly two times and can’t imagine that I did it as delicately as they both did. I stare at the pictures for longer, until I glimpse my reflection on the glass. I look tired. I feel tired.

There are more pictures hanging on the walls of my home. If it can still be home without my mother. I just want to be home. But for now, I settle for looking at the familiar picture frames. There are pictures of me throughout my childhood, smiling heavily that you can see it all over my body. There is a picture of me at prom with Laura; both caught in a laugh that I don’t remember making. There is a picture of me standing on the podium at my high school graduation, stumbling through a speech. And another of me at graduation, struggling to lift Michael in an embrace. The most recent one is of me with both my parents in front of the fountain at my school, from when they dropped me off. Maybe this is no longer my home, instead it has become a museum dedicated to the life of Richard Heron IV. So many different Richards, I ponder as I come to the mirror in the beginning of the hallway. Another Richard. Haggard Richard the museum will label him, perhaps Depressed Richard.

The door opens unexpectedly, and I am beginning to utter a greeting to my dad when I hear it. “Hey,” a voice that isn’t my dad’s says. Michael. I turn towards the door, as if to acknowledge him, to say something. But my throat is suddenly dry and no words come out. Michael decides to fill the silence, “Your dad still leaves the key in the same place. He might want to change that.” But it wasn’t my dad that came up with the idea to hide a spare key under the railing of our porch. I must have explained that to him. He must remember that it was my mother's idea and is just avoiding mentioning her. 

Who am I to judge? I can’t speak at all.

Notes on (First) Love

I loved him. Maybe a minute, Perhaps an hour, Perchance a year. But I loved him.

I met him from afar, I remember him sitting in front of me, And chancing upon him around the school;

And how he would see me, As if no one else could, Or would. As if he was meant to.

He devoured me with his eyes, as if I was special. And then, so quickly, he loved me. As if it was so easy, as if he would forever.

He said it first, while laying his head on my lap, While I held my hand to his heart as it beat furiously in his chest.

"I love you."

And I felt his heart, Bum bum bum. Bum. And I felt it, the truth of it.

"I love you,"

I whispered into his mouth. Leaning to kiss him, to feel him. To know and be known. And when I said it, I meant it.

I broke the kiss, saying those words again, As if it wasn't hard, as if I would never stop, Could never stop saying them. I remember repeating myself,

"I love you. I love you, I love you, Iloveyou."

As though if I stopped, my words would become lies. As if my words could show the enormity of it. As if I could tell him how much those words meant, just by repeating them.

But then, (like all things do) it ended.

Yet I love him, Loved him, Will love him.

Maybe a minute, maybe a year, maybe forever.

Confessions

I have failed -  Time and time again. For that was my choice.

But fuck it, I cannot do it again.

Her Memories

Fuck them. She doesn’t need them, Doesn’t want them, Cannot hear them.

They are dark, And they are scary. They can’t face her, They won’t scare her.

She’ll survive. And when she arrives, She’ll be alive, And still will rise.

Short Two

And as the sun lay to rest on the horizon, we were amazed to find the birth of thousands of shimmering specs on the night sky. Each thousands of light-years away - untouchable, as we thought of ourselves in the ignorance of youth.

Poem Nineteen

Enough

She dreamed of the ocean, The one that called to her in the middle of the night. She had been there once, and would never return. But her air freshener was “Ocean’s Breeze,” And maybe that was enough.

Excerpt from Something Unwritten

I looked at him, and I tried to say everything that I had kept inside me for so long, tried to come up with a phrase – a word, anything – that would make him stay, tried to speak my truth to him.  But nothing came out except for more tears because he did not deserve to be tied down to me.  He deserved someone who could give him everything, who would put him first.  And he was always second choice for me.

I had thought it through; I had looked at what my future with him could be.  And it was happy.  I could have been very happy with him, but what I felt for the other guy was something far more than what I could ever hope to have with Chris.  However, I wanted to say that I loved him and that everything would be alright.  I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that I would always be there for him, which I would try to be, but even if I wanted to stop him from hurting, I would only be doing it because of what had happened to him.  Chris did not deserve to be settled for because even if I was about to break his heart, I still loved him.

“– Amy. Just tell me to stay, and I will stay with you.  Just say something, please.”

“Chris, stop, I just cannot be with –“

“Or come with me, I love you.”

“Please just leave it alone.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

And he chuckled.  I could see why; I was hurting him, presently, the irony was not lost on me. However, it needed to be done, and the fact that he was leaving the city really helped making me brave enough to end it with him.  He would have no chance to come and find me, which made this the last time that I would see him, maybe forever.

“You say that you don’t want to hurt me, then tell me you love me.  I know you do, just admit it, please.  I cannot lose two people that I love.”

“Me loving you is not the point.”

“Then what is the goddamn point!”

“That, maybe, love is not enough?  Or, maybe, that I love someone else?  Or something else completely,” I said hoping to bring him back with the game that started all of this.

“You know what? I’m tired of your silly games.”

And with his condemning what I thought of as the starting point of our relationship, he trudged out of my dorm room, the weariness of the conversation that we had had evident in his walk.  I let him walk away from me without saying anything else because my work was done – I had successfully broken his heart, and that was a good thing.  I had done a service for him; he should not have to be tied down to someone that did not love him as much as he deserved.

I repeated the thoughts, again and again, in my head, but even though I felt that I had done the right thing, I still hurt.  I did love him, even if it was me who had broken up with him.  I cried silently and moved myself to lay down on my cheap mattress.  I laid my head on the pillow and looked up at the plain white ceiling, not feeling up to anything else.  There was no point in trying to study for finals with tears flowing from my eyes constantly.

Eventually, I fell to sleep thinking that I would have to remove the pictures of Chris from my cork board in the morning.  I couldn’t even bear to look at pictures of him.  I wouldn’t, couldn’t, throw them away because the memories of him were fond memories, even if a bit tainted by the fact that we were no longer together.

Poem Eighteen

Life

I was born, Ripped out of the comfort and silence of my mothers womb, And into the bright and loud blurriness of this world, A world I did not understand and that barely understood me. A world in which I grew up in extremes, Either too joyful or sorrowful, they were the same, An extreme, either fulfilling or dissatisfying, Never much middle ground was found by me. But I kept growing and found the grays of life, The days where you only want to wallow in your sadness, But somehow find comfort in that. The ideas of morality, Making me question what I had known to be true in my youthful naivete. And yet, I kept growing, and questioning, and wondering, and asking, And sometimes I received answers, and sometimes I did not, And I experienced even more joys and sorrows, but I was no longer, Nor will I ever be again, the same boy. The joys make the sorrows worse, And the sorrows now make the joys more sweet. And that is life.

Poem Seventeen

The Writing on the Walls

I am the one who writes, The one who writes those Outlandish things that you do.

The one who meticulously jots down Your every move, noticing the elegance And grace, and describing it.

I thought that it had been a two-way exchange, But instead you are on the other side of the one-way mirror, Only noticing yourself.

Poem Sixteen

Reflections on our Nonexistent Relationship

Because you were everything, I was nothing. Because you were the flame, I was the candle burning out.

Because you were Woman, I was Man. Because you were loved, I was not.

Because you were light, I became shadow, And since you were Queen, I became Peasant

And he became King, While I remained nothing.

Poem Fifteen

Sonnet for our Breakup

I think of you every single day, Not wanting to forget what once was mine: The girl whose beauty made her go away To find someone who could match the Devine.

I think of him too, the man that you chose, To have and to hold, in sickness and health. I know that I am the forgotten rose And he can provide for you with his wealth.

But still, I wonder, why you didn’t choose me; I loved you with everything I am, And after you took my heart I was free Because there was nothing left to take, ma'am.

You took everything and gave it up Right after the time that we brokeup.

Poem Fourteen

You don't answer my texts anymore, but I guess I expected that.

Poem Thirteen

You were once better than me, but I have begun to see why I left.

Poem Twelve

Credenza

I fell in love at a flea market, She was beautiful, older, But that just meant she had experience. She was perfect.

I took her home with me, And she moved in. I fell asleep next to her, Her skin, a natural brown, Lightly reflected the light that seeped in through the window.

Again, she was perfect. I became acquainted with her quickly, And she took all of my baggage inside of her, And every morning I would wake up next to her, the only constant in my life.

Poema Uno

Azúcar

Azúcar, son tus labios, Tus caderas, tus ojos, Tu piel, tu pelo.

Azúcar, son tus palabras dulces, Las que me dices en la noche, Media dormida y cansada de un día largo.

Azúcar, son tus caricias Que me das cuando hacemos el amor. Y en la calle

Nomas un simple toque Para que sepa que estás ahí con migo. Azúcar, tus pies y piernas

Que caminan hacia mí en este momento Con tus zapatillas altas, Las que usas porque dices que soy muy alto.

Azúcar, tu curiosidad. La que hace que mires sobre mi hombro Para ver que escribo.

Azúcar, tu, La que me da inspiración para escribir.

Poem Eleven

The Fork and the Spoon

You are the fork and the spoon, The dark and the light, My first bike and my first car, The waves and the breeze.

You are the match and the fire, The paper and the pen, Both the kite and the lightning, The volcano and the rain.

But you are not the oxygen I breath, The food that I eat, Or the bread. No, I am definitely the bread

And the grain of salt and a chicken egg. I am the ring and the hand, The tomorrow and the past, But I am neither fork or spoon.

You are still the fork. You are still the spoon. But I am still the bread, And I am still yours.

Poem Ten

Seeking Something

I thought about it. For a while. I think everyone does, At least once.

I just think that I lasted longer than most. With my silent contemplation, Over whether or not to…

God, I don’t even know. Maybe that’s what I was contemplating. The purpose of anything. The purpose of me, and I guess of you.

Whoever reads this shitty poem, If it can even be called a poem, You are from now on a part of my, I guess, silent contemplation.

You are the reason I’m alive. The reason I don’t try to… You know… Because what’s the point

If I can find no purpose in my life Or in my death, Then there is really nothing to do Except to continue to try to find a

Purpose. To try to find a reason to be Alive. To try to find reasoning in the Senselessness of it all. And if I died, Right now, I wouldn’t have the answers.