Poem: Pieces

When we disagree, it's like two steel trains,
hurling toward each other at hundreds of miles per hour,
bracing for the collision,
preparing for arguments with evidence and persuasion.

And when we do collide, it's a never ending rush,
of emotion and perfect syntax.

When we fight, it's all business and momentum.
Never relent, never give up.
She taught me that.
Come to think of it, she'd make a great lawyer.

She'd make a great anything, actually. Especially a writer.
I'm guessing her brain barf is far more snarky than mine,
I'm a novice, she's a master.

Whenever she's around, there's no writer's block.
We just sit and talk, laugh, expand, explore.
She's so full of ideas and turns of phrase and transitions.

I'd like to think that I've stored away little pieces of her,
her stoicism, her sarcasm,
her super sly winks from across the room.
Her eyes, her laugh, her taste for adventure.

Of course, there's also her obsessive planning,
the frazzled freak outs, the curtness.
And both our noses can pop.

Growing up, it was always my dad that I turned to,
about boy problems and general frustrations.
Meltdowns and freak outs.

Once, when I was crying after a breakup,
she looked at me, dead-faced and said,
"Why are you crying."
But she was always strong like that.

At the time, I thought I needed hugs,
and copious amounts of chocolate.
But really, I needed her perspective. I survived.

She passed along to me her love of wine,
And her recipe for the world's best margaritas,
her stubborness, her determination.
Her my-way-or-the-highway-ness.

During high school, we shared weeknights on the couch,
an hour with Lorelei and Rory and Jess.
And Wheat Thins and cream cheese.

I spent school mornings in the car with my dad,
angstily belting out Taylor Swift.
But those nights were for her.

She knows my favorite foods and my taste in books,
the way my cheeks get pink after a third glass.
She laughs at the fact that I constantly hear music,
as if some ADHD-ridden DJ is spinning in my head.

We share a love for good shoes and toe rings,
and for our perfect little black lab
(who she not-so-secretly loves more than me).

At one point in the Netherlands, we stopped for a bit
and spent an hour sitting crosslegged
on the floor of some Dutch bookstore.
It was one of the simplest joys of our European adventure.

She's wild, tamed by marriage and domesticity.
But wild nonetheless.
I would hope that she passed that along to me, too.

I love you, Ma.

###

Poem: Did you know?

Did you know?

That according to MapQuest,
It would take 17 hours and 34 minutes to get from here to you.
I bet I could make it in less time.
Just load a car (I don't know whose) up with country music and caffeine,
Drive for a while. Stop at random intervals. Make friends with truckers.

All to see your face, then kidnap you and take you home with me.
On the way back, though, we'd have to stop in Kalamazoo.
Because it's freaking Kalamazoo.

We could just drive, and I wouldn't speed so much on the way back.
We could mozey our way through the frozen countryside.
And by the time we finally get back to New York, we would be caught up on everything.
As if two years had only been two weeks.

Did you know?

That I've probably spent more money on postage the past 16 months, 2 weeks and 4 days,
Than I have on shoes.
That's a high honor, my friend.

I once wrote in a letter that you and I move forward in our lives,
Our paths "parallel, but never intersecting."
Occasionally, an archaic bit of snail mail bonds us together momentarily
Like a rung on a train track.

You and me, bonded together, connected for an instant, then not.
Never touching. Never talking. Always an arm's length away.

Did you know?

That the only thing I've loved since you went away was my job,
As if all the frustration could be processed, filtered and recycled as witty banter,
As book reviews and blog posts and pointless tweets.

But sometimes that filter breaks and all the frustration comes out and i forget to use punctuation and sentences and i just write to you about everything that comes to mind and inevitably overwhelm you with feelings youre all too familiar with and just confuse the heck out of you and i try to find the barrier between logic and emotion because when im in control and theres logic then i can talk myself through all of this but when its emotion then all there is is
You.

Did you know?

That all those months ago, when we met
That I would be your closest friend and confidante.
That you would talk to me more than to your mother.
That I would still be here.

You wrote once that you hoped I'd always write you,
That typically, people just fall away after six months or a year.
And I've had my dry spells, but I'm here. Still.

Did you know?

That if we ever do intersect... If we were to take all our letters,
And string them together in a book,
They would tell such an incredible story. There is so much truth in writing,
Like a personal truth, a genuine truth. Maybe that's why I love it so much.

People could read our letters and witness all the changes that we've experienced.
They could laugh at our silly nicknames and at the way you use circles instead of dots
Over your i's.

They could know us like we know each other.
And we could sell a million copies and buy houses in New York and Utah and California
And just ship back and forth between them all.
And they'd look back and say 

Shoot, it's all because some silly girl just got in a car and drove.
And now I'm off in shouldawouldacoulda land. When I've told you that logically, it doesn't work.
I know that...

Parallel, but never intersecting.
Two separate worlds.
Two very different people.
But one summer together and you threw me all off.

Did you know?