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flu-induced depressive episode posting
Mar. 23rd, 2025 12:50 amLive Oak.
Hibiscus.
You lived with your dad in a tiny house in the canyon, surrounded by eucalyptus trees. We were maybe twelve or thirteen, and you wore spaghetti strap tank tops, bell bottom jeans and skater shoes. We'd explore along river banks, spend afternoons getting into trouble on the archaic internet, and I'd work my hardest to make you laugh, so I could see that certain electric blue glimmer in your eyes, behind your thin glasses. We kissed for the first time in your bed, the morning before school, and had hibiscus tea afterward. I remember so little now- we were so young. In the years since, I haven't missed you, but I feel lucky that my first girlfriend was also a friend, and a friend to me at a turbulent time in my life.
Blank Page.
We were scared kids. You drew and wrote often in your notebooks, and I was charmed by you.
Prophecy.
More than most things, I wish you were here. You would have so much to say about the world as it is now. I wonder what you would have ended up becoming, if you hadn't left us. I still feel you in the rain sometimes, in the roses, in certain light and certain sound. I wish I'd really known you, the way I felt myself wanting to when I was a kid. I wish you could know me as I am now, because I think you'd like me a lot better, as much as you loved me then. I can't say I didn't deserve you, because we were so young, and as good to each other as we could have been, I think. I miss the way the world slowed down around you, and how much you thought before speaking. Your laugh was slow to bloom, and when it did, it was a garden. Your quiet moments were the warmth of waking up in the late afternoon. We will meet again someday, I believe, and I hope at that time we can experience more joy together, and much less pain.
Snow.
I wish I'd been better, braver and kinder.
Fireworks.
At 22, you were
powdery guitars.
You were the laugh forming, unbridled in my chest.
Watermelon on a cliff overlooking the sea.
Jacaranda blooming vividly in the trees, riots of purple and vivid green.
Aching melodies and winding mountain roads.
Collections of treasures on colorful shelves.
Rum in a plastic bottle at 2AM, feeling more in love with life than I'd ever felt.
You were cities through airplane windows. Thunderstorms, and first snows, and fireflies.
You were being known, for the first time. Joy, and wonder, adventure and community.
Love in its purest, brightest, strongest form.
Fireworks mark celebrations and memorable days. Unforgettable, glittering, and temporary. You cannot hold them in your hands. I tried, and it left burn scars I will always carry. But in truth, I would not have it any other way- reaching out to them to see if I could was something I was meant to do, without a doubt. Despite the pain, the time, the distance, and our faults, my youth, and a part of my heart, quite simply, will always be yours, forever.
Midnight.
We grew close in winter. I remember how dark the nights were, as I became nocturnal to stay near to you. It was a time of upheaval, and you were there, and patient with me, and full of your quiet, incredulous delight at my antics and boundless energy.
I knew perfectly well how to be good to you, and chose instead to be selfish. I don't think either of us was perfect, but I could not turn from the ache your words sent through me, some fierce desire to bring you close and simply be there beside you, as a person. As someone who wanted so badly to help you to feel something other than pain. As someone who wanted to be a friend, who loved you, and who did not know how to reconcile that with the life I wanted to have, as it became clear how much you loved me in return. I was a bird flying toward a glass window, certain all would be well, and it should not have been a shock, after all we went through, when it was not.
Latte.
I was drunk the day we met, and I braided flowers into your hair. I have a photo of that moment, and I'm grateful every day.
I was drunk, too, when you kissed me, and one of us said "we might not get the chance again," though I don't remember which of us it was.
I was sober when we first slept together, but I might has well have been drunk at that point, after days upon days of gravitating to you, closing gaps between us, your quiet wit and vibrant view of life sending electric currents through me. It was a turbulent time in my life.
Ghost.
The realest you ever felt was the day you left me.
Cedar.
Home is a cedar tree. The stream that cools my aching feet, the sun that lulls me to sleep in the late afternoon, and the clouds that carry the premonition of nourishing rain. I reach out and touch familiar moss, rivers of glacial melt, flecked with telltale gold. Home is the wind out the car windows, city lights and coastal fog and promise and respite and possibility. Home is the couch, a tapestry of our habits and conversations, with a little black dog wedged between us- the couch you were already planning to buy when I said we should have a more comfortable space to lay together. Home is an incandescent laugh, a long rambling story, and a contented silence. Home is incense smoke and candle wax, garlic and onions in skillets, and drawings on coffee cups. Home is you, my love, who asks me who I am rather than taking me as I am. Who wants to live today, with me, while holding space for all I've been. Each day with you is a balm on my soul, and I'm looking forward to the next.
Hibiscus.
You lived with your dad in a tiny house in the canyon, surrounded by eucalyptus trees. We were maybe twelve or thirteen, and you wore spaghetti strap tank tops, bell bottom jeans and skater shoes. We'd explore along river banks, spend afternoons getting into trouble on the archaic internet, and I'd work my hardest to make you laugh, so I could see that certain electric blue glimmer in your eyes, behind your thin glasses. We kissed for the first time in your bed, the morning before school, and had hibiscus tea afterward. I remember so little now- we were so young. In the years since, I haven't missed you, but I feel lucky that my first girlfriend was also a friend, and a friend to me at a turbulent time in my life.
Blank Page.
We were scared kids. You drew and wrote often in your notebooks, and I was charmed by you.
Prophecy.
More than most things, I wish you were here. You would have so much to say about the world as it is now. I wonder what you would have ended up becoming, if you hadn't left us. I still feel you in the rain sometimes, in the roses, in certain light and certain sound. I wish I'd really known you, the way I felt myself wanting to when I was a kid. I wish you could know me as I am now, because I think you'd like me a lot better, as much as you loved me then. I can't say I didn't deserve you, because we were so young, and as good to each other as we could have been, I think. I miss the way the world slowed down around you, and how much you thought before speaking. Your laugh was slow to bloom, and when it did, it was a garden. Your quiet moments were the warmth of waking up in the late afternoon. We will meet again someday, I believe, and I hope at that time we can experience more joy together, and much less pain.
Snow.
I wish I'd been better, braver and kinder.
Fireworks.
At 22, you were
powdery guitars.
You were the laugh forming, unbridled in my chest.
Watermelon on a cliff overlooking the sea.
Jacaranda blooming vividly in the trees, riots of purple and vivid green.
Aching melodies and winding mountain roads.
Collections of treasures on colorful shelves.
Rum in a plastic bottle at 2AM, feeling more in love with life than I'd ever felt.
You were cities through airplane windows. Thunderstorms, and first snows, and fireflies.
You were being known, for the first time. Joy, and wonder, adventure and community.
Love in its purest, brightest, strongest form.
Fireworks mark celebrations and memorable days. Unforgettable, glittering, and temporary. You cannot hold them in your hands. I tried, and it left burn scars I will always carry. But in truth, I would not have it any other way- reaching out to them to see if I could was something I was meant to do, without a doubt. Despite the pain, the time, the distance, and our faults, my youth, and a part of my heart, quite simply, will always be yours, forever.
Midnight.
We grew close in winter. I remember how dark the nights were, as I became nocturnal to stay near to you. It was a time of upheaval, and you were there, and patient with me, and full of your quiet, incredulous delight at my antics and boundless energy.
I knew perfectly well how to be good to you, and chose instead to be selfish. I don't think either of us was perfect, but I could not turn from the ache your words sent through me, some fierce desire to bring you close and simply be there beside you, as a person. As someone who wanted so badly to help you to feel something other than pain. As someone who wanted to be a friend, who loved you, and who did not know how to reconcile that with the life I wanted to have, as it became clear how much you loved me in return. I was a bird flying toward a glass window, certain all would be well, and it should not have been a shock, after all we went through, when it was not.
Latte.
I was drunk the day we met, and I braided flowers into your hair. I have a photo of that moment, and I'm grateful every day.
I was drunk, too, when you kissed me, and one of us said "we might not get the chance again," though I don't remember which of us it was.
I was sober when we first slept together, but I might has well have been drunk at that point, after days upon days of gravitating to you, closing gaps between us, your quiet wit and vibrant view of life sending electric currents through me. It was a turbulent time in my life.
Ghost.
The realest you ever felt was the day you left me.
Cedar.
Home is a cedar tree. The stream that cools my aching feet, the sun that lulls me to sleep in the late afternoon, and the clouds that carry the premonition of nourishing rain. I reach out and touch familiar moss, rivers of glacial melt, flecked with telltale gold. Home is the wind out the car windows, city lights and coastal fog and promise and respite and possibility. Home is the couch, a tapestry of our habits and conversations, with a little black dog wedged between us- the couch you were already planning to buy when I said we should have a more comfortable space to lay together. Home is an incandescent laugh, a long rambling story, and a contented silence. Home is incense smoke and candle wax, garlic and onions in skillets, and drawings on coffee cups. Home is you, my love, who asks me who I am rather than taking me as I am. Who wants to live today, with me, while holding space for all I've been. Each day with you is a balm on my soul, and I'm looking forward to the next.
Welcome! Feel free to grab a Purple Candy! But in exchange, please include the name of your favorite Spooky/Halloween movie or TV show! 
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