standing at the edge of.
his t-shirt has worn thin, a heather grey. the scent of his sweat is masked by a light veil of perfumed deodorant and cologne; each time he moves, the smell creates small ripples that twist the tides that stream toward her nostrils. his laughter is big and full, his eyes--mirrored images in color and light--soft around the edges, his tongue thick and wet behind white-picket walls of teeth.
in the darkness, his face moves slowly, subtle shadows playing along his lips that curl into tiny purpled cheshire-cat smiles. he remains hidden behind his eyes, quickly skimming the shallow dips and curves of her face before fleeing toward the window, the wall, the eighty-two painted ceiling tile. the television flashes images of nazi germany; she covers her face as cries cease in the face of exploding triggers; his eyes pretend to melt like soft cobalt candies beneath a burning summer sun. he is standing at the edge, his toes curled along the lines between falling in and falling out. she tempts him, clicking her tongue, stroking her fingers into his ribs to hear his laughter like bright wedding bells; yet he is kept by gravity, magnetized by the sensible side of himself--never one for whirlwind romance. never one to lie down easily.
Standing on the edge of these stairs to the beasement where i miss you. The couch where i kiss you. I hate this, I hate you. Your dimwit smile and casual approach to my torment peremates this room. I sit and absorb it as i once absorbed your riddicule and frequent indiffrence. I lie in our corner and I drown in our past.
Standing at the edge of youth, he waits for Father Time. Mother Nature spreads her arms and welcomes with a smile. Seasons pass and leave behind a scattered sense of age. Youth becomes a maiden lost, and drifts on memories out to sea.
[visiting the past; 403 words.]
Standing at the edge of a memory, it’s easy to believe that the past is still attainable. It’s easy to think that with everything I’ve learned since, I could just step back into the past, into your life and fix everything I broke and offer everything I never could.
This isn’t what you tell me, but I think it’s what you’re trying to say. You never did talk to me much, even though I’m the one that’s supposed to be shy. You tell me you made a mistake, as though that is enough. As if that can undo your mistake and all the ones that happened as a consequence. Sometimes, I wish it could. I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that. And all those times that you didn’t, pushed me a little bit further in the right direction.
I would like to say yes to you right now. Hide away here in your house to avoid my own, abandon school in pursuit of you (because when have I ever really had you for my own?). I would like to go back and change the past. I can do things better this time around - I’ve changed more than either of us could have imagined. The trouble is, you haven’t.
You know my side of the story. I’ve told you over and over. This is your side. This is what you should be saying to yourself, if only you could. Sometimes I wonder if you’re crazier than I am, if you need saving more than I do, because at least I let my emotions out, even if I do never let them go.
I wish I could have saved you.
Logic announces that even if true love does exist, I was too young to experience it. Past experience tells us that you didn’t really ever understand anything I tried to explain. You still don’t. A lot of things haven’t changed. The fact that you’re sorry only changes a little.
Being sorry doesn’t undo the past. Knowing you made a mistake doesn’t excuse your actions (the same goes for me too). Missing me doesn’t mean you truly want me back (remember how I tied you down? Remember how I asked you questions you didn’t want to think about the answer to? Remember any times when I wasn’t crying?).
But all those things do make the past a little easier to deal with.
you'll always be standing at the edge of my mind,
the little reminder that nothing
will ever be ok.
& maybe i'll always be hovering
in a corner of your psyche,
a memo to lighter, brighter, innocent days.
but i'm tired of your ghost,
i'm sure you grow sick of mine
so what d'you say to a truce of some kind?
if you'd just do more than half-smirk
& keep riding away, i'd promise to never call
or need your love in any way.
i'm moving on; i'm done with you; can't you see?
it's all your fault
that you still hold a part of me.
thinking about you now proves nothing,
it's still your responsibility
to stop standing at the edge of my mind.
she is standing at the edge of the pool and i watch the water ripple before she even dips her toes in the turquoise water as if it is anticipating the touch of her skin. Her foot slips into it and she glides under as if she always was meant to, as if the water is her best friend and not me. i watch a ladybug try to follow her in and i know that it will drown. i lean over and scoop it up with my hands, it flutters off, towards the blueness of the sky.
she is completly under water now. she is completly water now.
i'm new. and this community is amazing.
You’re standing at the edge of the bed, it’s flannel sheets twisted and hanging off each side. The golden glow of the frosted lamp in the hallway frames your bony shoulders, reminding me of what it was like to feel that warm summer skin. You tell me not to call, that this meant nothing. I don’t believe you, because you can’t look at me, your shifty brown eyes searching for something in the stained orange carpet on the floor.
Your ratty white t-shirt, grass stained with clumps of dried paint near the hem, is draped clumsily over the headboard, and you reach over me to get it. You don’t notice, but a few little strands of your salty ocean hair brush across my neck, and the little blonde hairs on my bare arms stand up straight.
You fumble quickly to pull that t-shirt on, and grab your set of car keys off of my dresser. “Later,” you say without any bit of attachment. And then you’re gone, your choppy Chevy pickup barely audible as it pulls out of the stop sign on the end of Willard Road. Now I’m left standing there, naked. And I’m shivering, even though it's ninety degrees in August. You do that to me. You did this to me.
Standing at the edge of a whole new dream, the past behind but desperately clung onto. I can see the promise on the horizon, but the ground beneath my feet is loose and eager to make me slip, trip and tumble; to dash my hopes on the rocks below. I'm seeing your face in that horizon, I'm dreaming up scenarios in my head, the backlight of the sunrise lighting them up. If I reach far enough, will I fly?
I'm standing at the edge of you.
You held me so close, so protectively, in your arms. You murmured those words of love, of possession, and all I saw was you. But no longer.
I can see the edge. The murmurs have stopped, I'm looking away, your arms are holding me too tight. Independence? You're with me, but I am not here. I'm not drowning in you any longer. The edge is near, a new feeling, wild, crazy, me.
I can't not jump when I'm at the edge.