Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I met her on a Tuesday.
But it wasn’t an ordinary Tuesday.
Sort of lukewarm, but heavy.
One of those just get in the car,
cut the music on and drive
kind of Tuesdays.

She was at the gas station,
wearing Beats headphones.
Not the discreet ones that fit
in your ears,
but those big-ass ones
that go over your head
mouthing the words
to what I guess
was her favorite song.

Moments like these happen quick.
All it takes is a look.
When she looked at me,
she looked like I interrupted a thought
she didn’t get to finish.

Some people just have a look
the sort of look that’s far from soft.
The look I reflected back
was one that wanted to know why.

The thing about her is
she talks like a puzzle.
Not a full one, already put together.
When she opens her mouth,
imagine 10,000 pieces flying at you
all at once.

If you can imagine that,
I don’t trust you.
Like at all.
I am laughing but I am serious.
Because you’re another one
that sees things
the way you want to.

At some point
especially dealing with 10,000 pieces
a few are bound to get lost.
But I like that about her.
She makes you earn those pieces.
Consider it delayed gratification
in separating intention.

It’s not really the pieces that speak.
It’s the silence between the words.

You learn she’s the type of woman
who shuts down at the slightest octave of your voice
whether you’re too excited or not.

At restaurants,
or even at the movies,
she counts all the exits,
knows where every door is.

She’s not really a match that’s been struck
but soon, you pick up
that many have watched her burn.

When she loves,
she tends to hold on to it
ultimately burning herself.
But she tries.

I, myself,
like a good rattle every now and then.
Nothing like the taste of splintery wood
soaked in gasoline,
melting in your mouth.

I live in my own world.
So it was an adjustment
learning how to wait without asking,
how to listen
without trying to fix anything.

She might have been burnt,
but she isn’t a victim.
Understandably, there may be a ghost or two
that keeps her up
but she faces them,
even calls them friends sometimes.

Some nights,
she cries
without so much as a single word.
A single tear.
Even then,
I just hold her
the same way people hold their jewelry.

Doesn’t matter.
Real or fake.
No judgment.

Everyone needs something to believe in.
Something to ease their mind.

Not everything is made to last.
The important thing
is to let it breathe
Rattle around your neck
Until it gets comfortable
but ultimately,
you protect the things closest to you.

You don’t ask about the scars,
the burns,
or the bruises.
Not even the names
of all the flames
that were fought
just to survive.

When I met her,
she told me she doesn’t believe in forever.

I looked at her and said,
“That’s cool.”
Then I told her
I believe that not all short people
should carry sharp objects.

I can only imagine
what ran through her mind.
But it couldn’t have been too bad.
Enough time has passed
to memorize the things she never says.

How she’s always intentionally early,
just to avoid talking
when everyone else arrives.

How her favorite foods
are the ones she couldn’t have growing up.
How she always wanted to travel,
but never had anyone to go with.

I think to some extent,
we all want to be touched
just don’t know the right words.
After all,
in certain states,
that’s a charge.

But more importantly
the memory of those who took
and kept taking
is still there.

All of that,
I get.

Then, on a random Tuesday,
it hit me.

While it’s a beautiful thing to witness
I realized
I am just standing still.

Breathing, nonetheless.
But I am standing still.

She disappears and ventures off
two, three days.
I am standing.

She forgets to call.
I am standing.

She forgets my name.
I am still standing.

Eventually,
I become a stranger.

Some days,
a smile casually strolls in.

Turns out,
she actually is a match
a match that forgot how to breathe.

I realized this some time back,
but didn’t know what I was looking at.

Eventually,
she’s going to learn how to breathe again.
And when she does
she’s going to burn everything down.

She doesn’t even talk to her ghosts anymore.
Then again,
the scars,
the bruises
they all make sense.

In her language,
The one she speaks between words.
Maybe she doesn’t believe in forever
not because she doesn’t know how to stay,
but because a fire always moves
suppressing,
devouring,
everything it comes in contact with.
Everyone needs something to believe
In