Brick by brick by Brick

By brick

“I love you, too” “I think so, too” “Oh my god, me, too”

   I fling them through the windows of churches- but not real churches like church churches, but REAL churches like little benches in courtyards that everyone knows not to sit on because Mr. and Mrs. Gallegos have their names engraved on the top. Like book pages with no bent corners because GOD use a bookmark. Like little kisses on my brow when I’m mad because you know I’m scared of wrinkles. Those churches.

All those sincere things Those good things I hate them.

So I blow apart the walls and windows With bricks made of platitudes. Brick By brick

              By brick.

“You are SO beautiful!” Oh my god, thank you! You, too!

By brick.

“I think you’re going to like them!” I think so, too.

By brick.

“I’m so lucky to have you. I love you.” I love you, too.

By brick.

   There’s something so saccharine about the church you built me into. About the walls made of words you flung my way hoping I’d make myself someplace you could call home. Sincere words. Good words. Words I know you meant once. Words something in me knows you probably still mean. But you didn’t build me windows. Maybe it’s because I was the type to sit in front of them and dream of the other side of the pane. Hoping someone passing by would want to free me. Break me out of my windowless church

“You’re different now.” I know. You, too.

Brick.

“I miss the way you used to be.” Fuck, I do, too.

By brick.

“You’ll never be happy.” I think so, too.

By brick.

I do this thing Where I run out of things to say Insincere things. Good-intentioned things. And those things, the bricks I stacked around me- reinforcing the walls you built your fake church around- those bricks get sparse.

My walls develop holes. Maybe I AM beautiful when I dress in the things you like. Maybe I AM sweet when I give you the things you used to take. Maybe I DO love you, too.

And then there I am.

Bare.

Walls torn down, brick by brick.

And then somewhere Through the window of a church, a real church- not a church church- a whispered Jeopardy! answer before Alex Trebek shouts it, a shirt with a hole in the armpit but is perfect for sleeping in, a single flower in a nightstand vase to match a bouquet in the apartment of someone fifteen minutes away— a REAL church

Someone, maybe a stranger, Maybe me Throws a brick that smashes the glass To smithereens

“I think you’re going to love them!” Yeah. Me, too.

What were you thinking? You fucking left me here. You took everything with you when you went. The world is so different now.

You fucking left me here. All the promises. All the plans. The world is so different now. I hate all the places we didn’t get to go.

All the promises. All the plans. All the dreams. All gone. I hate all the places we didn’t get to go. Like that one little restaurant on 4th street.

All the dreams. All gone. Empty, abandonded. Maybe one or two things left in there. Like that one little restaurant on 4th street. I still see your rose bush and the tire marks you left in the driveway.

Empty, abandoned. Maybe one or two things left in there In my head. I still see your rose bush and the tire marks you left in the driveway. And it pisses me off while I stand in the window of the house you fucking left me in.

In my head You’re still here. And it pisses me off while I stand in the window of the house you fucking left me in What the fuck were you thinking?

You’re still here. What were you thinking? What the fuck were you thinking? You took everything with you when you went.

There’s day. And there’s night.

My leaves love the former. It’s warm, and it feels nice to be warm. I can stretch and bask in the light that comes and it’s so WARM.

Soft smiles on sidewalks, quick waves out driver side windows in traffic, hugs that pin arms to ribs and rock back and forth like wa’a on gentle tides. Warm. Easy.

My leaves love that. My petals, the latter.

It’s brisk. Whispers of the warmth of the day leave trails behind as I forget the sound- the memories of the sun wandering off into the moonlight. I shiver- from the longing or the cold, I don’t know- but I shiver.

Boisterous laughter in an unseen corner of a dimly lit restaurant, long conversations in the front seat- staring through the windshield wondering how four AM came so fast, words heavy on tongues that are heavy with the taste of what more there could be.

My petals love that.

I hope you find me in the night. My leaves will have already felt the day, said goodbye to the sun. I would’ve let that Corolla merge and grinned at the hand that popped out the cracked window. I’d have already hugged you so tight the giggles would’ve hurt our ribs. It would have been so warm.

I hope the day is gone when you see me last. The moon should be out, solemn in the sky, echoes of its love for the sun outlining my petals before they wilt. I’d have eaten too much spaghetti, laughed too loud in the booth at Carruso’s. You would have kissed me already, and I know you didn’t say what you meant to say but I heard it anyway. It’s a promise. I promise. It’ll be cold, for a bit. I’m sorry about that.

But then, my love, there will be day. And I think you’ll love the warmth.