relative integrative

March 24, 2011 Posted by the writer

We moved so fluid within foggy copper pools of street lamps, it was like we were part of the glow.

Dim enough to stay unnoticed, I still remember the way dust became glitter swirling around you. Spinning around crosswalk signs and missing red hands flash green and acting like I wasn’t ready to go…

You said I was beautiful once.

It was the time after you brought me a single stargazer lily that I wish I dried. Back when I would wake up with no promises and wet pillowcases… damp cheeks.

Every day on the subway I close my eyes because seventy miles an hour underground surrounded by the trust of strangers is safe. More secure than the frequency of phone rings that never came when I was too young and you had too much of two things: friends and money.

And I never understood that…

We went to Central Park late one night, it surprised me that you never noticed the way I seek out dark situations, like finding the perfect place beneath branches – the residence of your eyes.

You never told me that you counted the shades of green my gaze shifts when I once wondered about whether you remembered my zodiac sign, or how much emphasis I put on moon signs and Venus.

Ascending signs… out of sight.

When you took me out to breakfast and opened a newspaper I watched you read, smiling at my word secrets. Suddenly we were sitting on a balcony four stories above St Marks Place drinking double espresso and smoking clove cigarettes. And I had everything.

No one seemed to realize the way you wore me like a silk scarf, the soft slip around your hips or shoulder enclosure… how you embraced my satin spell and tied me into a talisman.


There was one friend you would talk to about me. You told that person how I only touch with the tips of my fingers and never expect anyone to stay. You mentioned the time that I said you would break my heart and your friend said…

‘Maybe you should avoid people like “that”.’

You stopped speaking about how the things that I stand near are left with the scent of frankincense. It upset you. You wished there was someone else you could talk to about it.

And I deserved…

About the writer

gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

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