I conspired a plan to get his attention; eyes and ears and lips I haven’t seen in months. I still read his words from time to time. An orator of sorts, he drops bodies like I do with the words that form sentences and paragraphs and longform. Time deranges the realities of our situation. It wasn’t for the best. It brought some of the best out of me. Those things only God will know and cleanse me from.
I have no reason to miss what I didn’t have. I don’t own anybody’s soul in the world to repossess what was taken from me. A few weeks ain’t worth all that energy. Last night, it was. That’s what happens when you miss someone. You do dumb, incoherent shit to get them back. One of those times.
I give myself grace to know that missing someone is a normal part of life. I miss my Dad every day. I miss the friends I lost through no action or all action of my own. I miss the people who saw me when I needed to know that I wasn’t invisible. I miss those who claim to not miss me but do such a thing. Quality time is my love language. If we spend time, you’re a part of the diction that forms the speech of what’s important to me in relationships. I want that time back from some of you. But not him. I wanted more and I reached for it and never got what I wanted. Thanks be to God.
We’re not walking back down that road, The Creator says. She saw that moment up close. I feign for Her creations when I lack the creativity to live my best life. Down at my worst, I want what isn’t best. He just fit the bill. Wordsmiths do that. It doesn’t take much.
I can chalk dude up as fodder for the writtens I have in the stash. For what I’m writing about this season. Like this one right here. Somehow he found me through an arena where I go to hide from such inspiration. I guess he got everything that I was coming with that day or the words just hit different, who knows. Told me that he was a writer. What he wrote stained my damn consciousness I still read it from time-to-time. If I didn’t know who was on the other end, I would still call. Don’t nobody write about the pain and the loss and the love like he does. Then he told me what informs such work. Divorcees are deep people.
So I wrote something about him. Seismic waves or Ghosts. You’ve read it too. He helped me escape a depression I still can’t comprehend even at this moment. He started to write about me. There’s a Bible to the left of me so I can’t say what it was all about. Lighting bolts can go boom and all that jazz. Write a girl out of her panties, that’s how you win with me. But when he wanted to read these other thoughts of mine, the ones from a girl who bickers with God like she can do with man, I hid. Ran back to the comfort of not falling in strong like and infatuation with someone to the point of incoherence. Block buttons are ill in that way. Being scared is not.
Sneak dissing in essay form for months because I don’t want to own the loss. Not sure if it can be called that. He drew tainted water from the well of my being. I fight the girl he saw every day until last night. She’s dope when she can be flat-footed in who she is. We beef because she really isn’t ready to be seen by the world. But I didn’t want to hide from him anymore. God hid him from me though. Again, thanks be.
ciara roslyn-james 