Elisabeth Writing

You let me slip through your fingers…

I wonder if that makes you want to break glass, your fists curled and bloody, slivers of reflections caught in your palms.

I’m a peach sapphire dawn, and you are wary of the light, eyes slit against the glow, like you wish you could see me in that rosy shine. I admit to being even more lovely in the soft pink hours, wishing I was Aphrodite on sea foam and scalloped shells. 

You liked me in the morning with my hair tumbled, lips swollen, Atlantic green eyes lost in dreaming. Sometimes you’d watch me as I slept, like you could see the images in my mind, my gilded lashes hiding the secrets you yearned to keep. I’d yawn, stretch and look up at you with a leonine smile. 

I wonder if you still find golden locks in the depths of your closet, in the corners of your room, in the trunk of your car, even all these years later. Do you twirl them around your thumb and remember when you stroked your fingers through my mane, my head buried in your lap? Or the way our brushes sat side by side in the bathroom; dark and light, sun and moon, me and you. We shared a bed and exorcised ghosts. But am I still there in your soft sheets? Did you have to burn them, to get rid of the evocative jasmine scent that I touched to the hollow of my throat? Do you ever wake up, half asleep, and reach out for me? And then – snap, gone. It’s broken, and over, a bubble burst and a dream lost. 

I wonder if you sit in front of the television and a smirk spreads across your face, when you remember how I tried to make eclectic dinners. My cooking left much to be desired, and half the time it ended up on the floor when I tripped over my own coltish legs. Do you still see the way my hands flew up to cover my gasp of horror, how my eyes got round and apologetic? No matter how many small steps I took, no matter how careful I was, I was always covered in bruises. I can still see the way you tried to swallow your laughter as I sprawled on the floor, butter and sauce staining my shirt. Tears welling, trying not to spill, as I bit my lip so hard that I could taste pennies. You’d get on your knees and kiss me softly, telling me it was alright, and maybe we should just order pizza or get some fast food?

Now you look across the dining room table set with delicate china covered in roses, and conjure me up. The half grin on my face, irises sparkling at your quiet regard, long and golden legs tucked beneath me, the freckles that you used to kiss every night. Did you set a place for me at that wooden farmer’s table? Or am I just in your head, and in your regrets? You try to brush my cheek but I’m disappearing into a fey mist, already gone. 

You’re driving in your car under the knowing stars, swallowed by a heavy silence. There’s no me in the passenger seat singing along to Taylor or Lana or Newsies or Avenged Sevenfold, voice laughingly cracking on the harder notes, dissolving into giggles as you roll your eyes. You turn on the music with a bad tempered flick of your wrist, wondering if I will appear to change it, sticking out my tongue and pinching your cheek just to see your dark scowl. I used to love that expression on your face, our thunder and sunshine, incongruous but somehow perfect. Do you strain to hear the scratch of pen on paper as I scribbled in my journal? Do you wish you could tuck my hair behind my ear and ask me what I’m writing about? The way I’d lift my gaze to yours and proceed to ramble for moments, or centuries, about poetry and stories always made your heart glow a bit with pride. Now you bite back the question: “is it about me?”

It’s Halloween. Isn’t it always? The air bites your skin, the wind whips roses into your cheeks, the jack o’ lanterns smirk, the witches cackle over their cauldrons. You peer into their faces, beneath their pointed hats, but I’m not there. Do you chase every woman with gauzy wings, hoping to ask me one last question, or fight for me one final time? You remember me as a Nymph, as Aphrodite, as Catwoman, as a Pirate, as Morticia, as Red Riding Hood, as a Devious Kitten, as a Princess, as Persephone. I spin around you with different faces and the same smile, taunting you and beguiling you. You want to tenderly unlace every thread, gently wipe off the face paint, unpin my hair, divest me of flowers and fangs. You want me on a moss bower, blonde hair fanned out around a face flushed with love, and reveal my truth: that I’m yours. But that look of adoration slides away, and although you try to cling to me, I’m fading away. When you blink, all that’s left is petals and parchment. 

You let me slip through your fingers. Do you hate that?

And now my man, he gets me at midnight, when the train whistles and blows mournfully. He holds me a little tighter through the sorrow.

And now he gets my blueberry pancakes and apple pie, laughingly dusting the flour across my face onto his own hands. He’s cupping my hips with his palms, mouth watering at the treats I love to make.

And now he gets me in wings, crowns, and peonies. He puts on horns and tuxes, follows me into the sunset, fingers interlaced with mine. 

And now he gets me as I frantically use my thesaurus, groaning about characters and their mischief. He’s smiling softly from the corner of the couch as I bring fairytales to life. 

He’s fought for me time and time again. He knows my virtues and all my sins. He brings home poppies and salmon, pretty things and tart lemons, kisses me when I grumble, holds me down to force feed me love when I spit up everything else. 

And now my man, well, gets me for… 

forever. 

I wonder if you wish you were him.