welcometoatlantis - Tumblr blog

[welcometoatlantis]

I feel fragile, like a moth; and you're the sun, surrounding me, but I can never reach you.

And if I ever do, you'll destroy me without even meaning to.

You're all I want, yet unattainable.

Forbidden, but you fuel me.

I fly around you and you move through me.

[welcometoatlantis]

I want to write to you, but I don't know how to. It turns out real sadness is hollow, and not filled with words denoting reasons. You took all my sorrows and gave them a name- grief. And now the mundane seems lighter compared to my rucksack of mourning. And now my mornings feel empty, but my days feel less lonely. Cause now you're everywhere, not just at home waiting. And I don't have a home now. It turns out it wasn't the place, but who it was filled with.

How could I never write for you, when you were who most deserved it?

[welcometoatlantis]

Energy, what was your destiny?

Where will you go when you've left me?

[welcometoatlantis]

I wish it were easier, like Ctrl + alt + delete. Shake my head like an etch-a-sketch and start over. Blow you out like a candle. Let you sink to the bottom of the ocean like a necklace. Break you down and throw you out like the recycling. Pluck you from my garden like a weed. Dandelion seeds in the breeze. Be done with you like a chore. Forget you like a birthday, or the period at the end of a sentence

Easy come easy go, like the money i find at the bottom of my purse, unsolicited advice, or a stranger at the supermarket.

Why do you linger like callouses on my fingers, lipstick on my sleeve, whispers rolling down my neck, or the flavor of my coffee in the morning? Like the condensation on my window, sweat on a leather seat, seagulls searching for scraps, songs replaying in my head, a vivid dream, intrusive memory, smoke from a cigarette, stickiness from a candy - coating everything?

Why do you leave traces like fingerprints, and the scent of someone's perfume when you hug them? Like the white cast of shitty sunscreen, image burned into my screen, hair on my pillow, footprints on a beach, carved into my pages from the pressure of a pencil?

I wish i could fully erase you, iron you out of the wrinkles of my brain untangle you from my body. I wish it were easier to live with what's left and watch you drift away.

[welcometoatlantis]

I need to tell you

[welcometoatlantis]

[welcometoatlantis]

[welcometoatlantis]

[welcometoatlantis]

You're right here. Stop looking for yourself everywhere else.

[welcometoatlantis]

I can't see your face inches away from mine anymore; can't remember what your hands felt like, only your hug goodbye, only your eyes on mine from the passenger seat at the stop light.

I don't know you anymore; don't have your number, don't text, don't call, and I still dare to beg the silence to not let you forget me. How can this be our ending?

Socks, selfies, candy, footprints on a fogged up window; they haunt me.

Everything an almost but not quite. Everything half empty like the tequila in the closet, right where you left me.

Sometimes I talk to you in my head when I'm lonely, can you hear me?

I finally washed my corset after months; forced myself to finally let you go and time hastily erases the traces of you from my memory, like love letters in the rain.

A writer who never saw your handwriting. An open book with missing pages, and an ending.

[welcometoatlantis]

[welcometoatlantis]

Somewhere in my head, there's a version of you that is gone and the version of me that doesn't exist yet meets him at the airport. Those two were meant to meet, but were separated by time.

Tell me now, that time isn't what happened to us. That timing doesn't matter. That the exact amount of minutes it took me to walk to the food joint from across campus matching the time it took you to walk two blocks from your apartment, so that we could stand in line one behind the other and meet, wasn't a miracle. Tell me now, that if we had been off by a day or a week or year, that it wouldn't have mattered. Tell me timing isn't everything. Tell me it doesn't matter and come back, or finally admit that you're done with me and that we missed our moment.

Somewhere in my head there is a version of you that doesn't exist yet, and he calls me. And the timing is perfect. And we start over.

[welcometoatlantis]

Will you try to find me when you want to be a different person again? Will you come running when you're tired of pretending? Will you say that I was right and then say sorry? Re-read our chat logs at 2 o'clock in the morning again, and ask what if? Will you still blame me, or will you take accountability? Instead of taking me for granted. Again. Will it be a week, or two, or a month, or three? Will it be in spite of me or for me? Will you remember my birthday... Did you ever really love my pace? My poetry? Me? Try as you might, you could do everything right this time, but you can never un-fuck me. Will I always live in your daydreams?

[welcometoatlantis]

Stay, if you'd like. In my kitchen while I brew the coffee, covered in a blanket, offering to warm me. Stay, at the table. Sip your warm drink slowly. Help me pack my boxes; maybe meet my family. Stay, in the parking lot. Hug me hello and goodbye, and ask me where I'm going. Ask me to stay in touch. Stay, in my car, in my life, on the other side of the line. I just needed convincing; I'm not saying it's right, but please. Stay, with me.

[welcometoatlantis]

Crying on the kitchen floor then drinking water and realizing you were just dehydrated and not actually sad is such a humbling experience. Like, sorry i texted you all that emo shit, I was actually just thirsty.

[welcometoatlantis]

I asked "which one?" to my friend who just said your name, having momentarily forgotten you're gone. I'm drunk. I cringe as soon as I realize my mistake.

We were making fun of tarot readers, scoffing about good omens, and new loves. I joked "a new love is right around the corner, I just need to align with my new reality." He responded, "well you did just meet [insert your name here]," and I asked "which one?"

He said "...the cruise director guy?" (Not you)

We'd just returned from the cruise, on which the director would make announcements every morning. Every morning, as he introduced himself over the intercom speakers at 10am, I'd hear your name. Every morning, a reminder of how that same name used to escape my own lips every day before this trip. Every morning, mourning your absence, I'd listen to the cruise director, and see your face slowly fading from my memory.

I hated saying your name, for fear of accidentally invoking you, so I called him The Guy. We were around the same age, and bonded over our emo phases, so we'd always say hi to each other in the common areas.

"Oh!", I hastily responded as my friend glared at me, then rolled his eyes. He paused, and we both fell silent for a beat. "He goes to the gym every day..." he continued with an understanding smirk.

Even though you're gone, you're still my biggest secret. Even so, they seem to know. They all noticed someone consuming my nights, evoking smiles and anxiety when I'd glance at my phone. Everyone could feel the space you occupied in my life, and they can feel the emptiness now that you're gone.

So they go on cruises with me, and we drink wine and talk about your potential replacements, some of which happen to have your same name. And I shed you like an old flannel on a warm spring afternoon, forgotten at a restaurant. No longer keeping you around for comfort or in case the world gets too cold.

[welcometoatlantis]

I have trouble letting go of things - objects, moments, people - especially if they're beautiful. I'm a leech for beauty. I collect the cutest little pebbles I can find from every city, beach or park, or new place I visit. I cling to things as vessels to memories, and I cling to people maybe too tight sometimes. I worry a lot that I suffocate the people and beautiful moments. For the most part they cling back. Most people don't get clung to, and they appreciate the warmth; others don't know how to handle it and I suffocate them. So, I let them go and cling to the memory instead. But I can't ever seem to fully let go of all of it, even if I never speak with them again, even if I push them away and throw away their things in an attempt to loosen my grip, they stay with me.

In the way that I gesture or laugh, in their favorite snack at the grocery store, in the car seat next to me - I carry them with me, cling to their ghost, and bring them up in conversations so that for an instant they might be there again - existing as a part of my life.

I think that's why I became a writer. I needed a method of keeping my anecdotes, my beautiful moments and memories of beautiful people and things. Even the sad ones. Even in the empty parking lot from the shadow of dusk, I can find the light in the street lamp where we stood talking.

Some consider this too melancholy. It's who I've always been, and to me it's not sad. I'll die alone with my memories. I'll share all the stories until I run out of breath. I'll show you the pictures of my people and my trips. That's the thing about hoarders - we think our mess is beautiful but it leaves no room for anybody else to stay.

And that's ok - save yourself before I turn you into a poem.