Monday, September 03, 2007

long ago

I smell you and your room in my
Université de Paris sweatshirt and am
overwhelmed by a battery of thoughts,
chasing each other by and through a thin film
of association. Some paths, painful, send me
reeling back, searching for a clearer way. As I
continue searching, it doesn't matter so much,
as long as I continue. I don't want to put the
sweatshirt in the laundry, not yet anyway.
You remain here, a certain possible distance
from me.

This is a glimpse.


My first love wrote this for me. It's funny, my perception of our time together is that I was always chasing after him and he was always running away. I don't even really remember what this means anymore. If it were dated I could at least obtain a frame of reference, but it just sits on a piece of paper, staring up at me, trying to tell me something, and I don't know what exactly.

I do remember wearing his sweatshirts. I enjoyed doing that. I enjoyed smelling his scent. I guess he enjoyed mine as well.

I also just found a series of journal entries I wrote about our last days together before he left to study abroad. My deep poem to him that he doesn't know exists:

Never again will he smile just for me.
Never again will he kiss my lips.
Never again will he caress my body.
Never again will he hold me and tell me everything will be alright.
Never again will he love me with all of his heart.

I sit and hope for never to come.
Waiting...
                        forever.


I wrote that the very day he left, right after he got on the plane. Gosh, I was intense back then. :)

9 comments:

Mateo said...

I can relate to this right now; nothing I can post. If you’re interested, you know where I am.

Avitable said...

You're not intense right now? I think you still are.

Poppy Cede said...

Mateo, I'm kinda certain I know what you're going through. If you want to send me a gmail I'll gladly listen.

Avi, I guess you're right. I was destined for intensity. Very few people can handle how intense I really am, so I tend to keep it in reserve.

Mr. Fabulous said...

I'm with Adam. I don't think you have lost your intensity.

Poppy Cede said...

Fab, I don't think I've lost it. I think it's channeled slightly differently now. Not to diminish its value, but that poem is totally ruined by the artist known as Kelly Clarkson, so now I would not write anything like it. Bitch stole from me, yadda yadda yadda. I'd be more likely to write a letter directly to that lover, to communicate directly to him, to offer my words in first person. That said, I am still impressed with just how intense I was back then. The rest of the journal entries are just as intense, if not more so. I won't be sharing those here, but suffice it to say I have a clarity in writing my feelings. I process through word, and I see I've possessed that talent for a very long time. I'm proud of 1993 me, and proud of 2007 me. :)

New York City's Watchdog said...

Wow.

Those are deep.

I'm much more of a "Roses are red, Violets are blue," kind of guy.

Then again that's because most people never got anything else. Kinda like the chick where I gave her my soul in a book... and she gave me a lighter. I think she borrowed the lighter to burn that book the next day.

Yeah... your still intense... just not so outward about it. Of course... if you do one of those "Look into my eyes!!!" videos... I'll probably laugh my ass off.

Poppy Cede said...

Dawg!! :-o There's deep stuff in these eyes!!! See? 8-P

Oops, guess not. ;)

Dan said...

This is the measure of a true writer - saving those snippets of early romance. We all have a shoebox somewhere.

Poppy Cede said...

Dan, I have two shoeboxes. :) And several bags. And a binder. I save everything. Oddly, about a year back I shredded all the letters he sent me while he was staying abroad. They were still too painful. It was very therapeutic. Now I'm able to think of him without being hurt. Bonus! :)