Plate of Black

Spring 2009

We watched the Oscars. You cooked dinner. We smoked a few bowls and played Guitar Hero. And then the weather changed.
It was such a sudden shock. And such a funny feeling to be sitting on that white leather sofa, telling myself not to cry, while you watched me, waiting for it to rain. I was fine until I looked at you dead in the eyes. Your eyes dilate different than anyone else and I don't know why. But your iris, that huge plate of black on top of the crisp ocean blue made me loose it and my eyes welled up before you. You were grinning, smiling even as you are so uncomfortable with emotion. You didn't know what to do. Everytime I said I would go, you would just shake your head, "No" softly and caress my hand. You kept trying to make jokes, to make me smile through this sprinkler system on my face. But it didn't work. I just kept asking you questions you couldn't answer. You kept giving me tidbits of information underneath your breath, as though you were talking to yourself, and I was just an onlooker getting in the way of a private conversation. You just kept saying you didn't want to see me like this. You kept saying volumes with your eyes, contrary indeed to your smiling face. It was then my head started to pound, as this unforgivable headache started forming right there on your sofa.
I said, "If you like me, why would you send me away?" and your only response was, "because it's what I do when I like someone." You gave me that to chew on, like it made sense, like it was enough to keep me around. I don't even know if I'm supposed to wait around. Don't know if I should be that girl that gives you time and stays faithful in her adoration. Or if i should be the girl with the headache, watching John Mayer on my tv screen and feeling like a sobing fool, curled up on my futon and letting the daylight pass over me while i scorn the birds for their songs. Maybe I should be the drunken baffoon, the one who goes out and runs up a tab of drinks I don't taste, surrounded by a sea of men who talk at me, but don't see me, while I miss your dance moves in the crowd. No, I'll probably just be the girl who starts to resent you for your emotional censorship, and quits wondering why it happens, only wanting it to stop. Yeah, I'm sure that's part of the plan; Get the girl to hate you and you don't have to worry about hurting her anymore. Why is it, in the end, you had to be like every other man; such a scared little boy afraid of putting your feelings on the line for a girl who just wants to write you songs, in hopes that one day you would sing along, and neither of us would have to sing alone anymore?