Whittle me a heart out of wood.
I'll stay forever.

You told me not to give up hope.  But it slipped though my fingers, sliding so fast like the glistening water droplets.  I tried to hold it, all that I could.  I have a few spider web strands left, they're all that is supporting me.  I'm over a chasm of remembering, holding on tight.  Everything holds memories.  Classrooms, words, the buzz of my phone.  Late nights, my sweatshirts, that santa hat.  The pictures, my prom dress.  I cannot escape him.  The store holds items that trigger multitudes of memories.  My dreams haunt me more than reality.  In them I am his.  We hold hands, always touching.  We're together, standing close.  He smiles at me.  Laughs.  Those spider web strands are slipping through my fingers, but I remain in the air.  They become weak, only to be strengthened by thoughts, by a few words exchanged. By love.

I don't remember much of what went on, I just remember I was with you.  I shyly held out my hand so you'd bump it, and maybe hold it, but you didn't hold it.  Then I grabbed your hand to pull you in the direction I wanted to go, letting go after you started moving.  You reached for my hand then, lacing our fingers together.  We didn't let go.  Not ever.  Then we sat and waited, sitting on the bench like floating on air.  I rested my head on your shoulder, but thought too much so I lifted it back up.  You pulled me closer then, our sides together, your arm around me.  You held me and kissed me three times on the side of my head.
I woke up.
I love you,

“I just locked us out of my house.”

“What?”

“I just locked us out of my house.”  Naturally, two miniscule nano-seconds after I closed the front door I realized I’d forgotten to slip the key in my pocket.  So, with my mother away for the evening, probably until some diabolical time like three in the morning, and my father on a business trip across the continental United States of Whatever-The-Heck-This-Country-Is, my boyfriend and I are locked out of my house.  Pleasant enough, I guess.  I just let the screen door slam back into its white frame and grab his hand. 

“Let’s go.”  We walk down the street, around the corner, and eventually all over my neighborhood, circling and circling and pretending we are in a maze until we find ourselves at the drug store.  We wander around until the manager starts stalking us with her beady little light blue eyes and leave, with nothing more in our pockets than we came with.  We aren’t juvenile delinquents.  We eventually end up at my blue good-for-pretty-much-nothing house and stop, hand in hand, halfway up the driveway.  I remembered my truck keys are in my pocket and dig them out, cursing myself for not putting a house key on my key ring.  I let go of his hand and unlock the cab door, swinging it wide. 

“Climb in,” I tell him.  He does, making the old bench seat creak, creak like the whole entire vehicle does, and I climb in after him. 

“Are we going somewhere?” he asks.

“No.  I broke the oil pump yesterday, remember?”  He nods and I lock the door.  It gets too hot and stuffy outside, so we pile back out onto the driveway.  I push myself into the bed this time, ripping a whole in the back of my jeans on a rusty metal edge; he gets in with much more grace than I could ever manage.  We lay there in silence, him next to me, me next to him.  Our hands aren’t toughing, and neither are our arms or legs or feet.  Nothing.  If I close my eyes I can’t even tell he is there, which is the strange thing about him.  He’s like a ghost when I have my eyes closed.  A big ghost. 

“What do you wish for most?” he ventures.  I don’t take any time to answer.

“I want all this to be over, to be in a field out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, not another soul around for miles and miles and …” I wait.  “And I want to be so free that my heart can’t take it and I die.”

Isn't it funny how we dream and dream and imagine doing all these things and documenting them but when the time comes and we are living, involved in the moment for once, we don't document, it doesn't hold any water.  The words don't come.  Living or creating.  One or the other.
I went to prom with Cole.

Suddenly I got so desperate.  I have to do everything.  Everything fast.  Those songs are right, but so so shallow.  They are deeper for me.  Everything is deeper. That's why I have to speed.  Because it is deeper.  It's just impulsive.  I must.  I don't even know how to say it.

Sometimes I hold my hand in this specific way where my middle finger rests on the spot below my thumb where I can feel my pulse.  Just to remind myself I'm alive.

I tried writing again.  It didn't feel right and my feelings weren't on the paper like they used to be, my brain doesn't know the words anymore.  Anymore. Anymore.

What is this?