Ironic Miracle

I've been receiving postcards from Chicago, postcards from Leeds, postcards from Brisbane; postcards from all the friends I'm not close with, and I have to read their regards word by word like I'm trying to figure out the secret codes behind these pictures of landmarks from places half way across the world. I've been biting my tongue in my sleep for the past few nights and I had to wake up to a mouthful of blood of my own, to yet another nightmare when I was not asleep. Intuitions like these make it hard for me to not believe in intuitions like knowing that there's really "The One" in our lives that we are telepathically connected to. Because this morning I was told that he's already found someone new now, and suddenly I have so much to say after months of not being able to put a single word on my personal journal. I've also been told that there would be a miracle today and I looked for it everywhere so hard the entire day just to discover there was nothing but a bad weather and that I didn't dare listening to music that might prove it all wrong for something I anticipated. There was a lump in my chest and I had to pretend that it was the lecture notes in my bag that weighed me down to my ankles which made me walk so slowly across the flashing green pedestrian light. I stuffed cookies into my healing mouth hoping it would grow an extra layer of fat around my heart so no one could see it wriggle like a dying caterpillar. But what's the difference when I'm writing things like these as if I'm trying to wear it on my sleeve? I flipped to the first page of my ivory journal book where I found a quote I had written, with my bold handwriting, "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." And there's only one item I've crossed out on my bucket list - Fall in love. Postcards from all the friends I'm not close with. I definitely love an irony. And isn't this what I've been doing the whole time? Loving ironies. Walking ironies. Writing articles hoping I could be understood but also trying to hide myself away. And perhaps this is the miracle. This moment could be it. Albert Einstein once said that we could live life as if nothing is a miracle. Or as though everything is a miracle. I remember one morning I woke up next to him when the first rays filtered through the horizontal blinds and the shadows landed along the contour of his face, and I couldn't help kissing the lines like how people long to touch the paintings hanging in the museums. But I'd pretend that I didn't know him ten years from now if we crossed paths on each side of the yellow lines on the ground while green lights were flashing and my heart pumping to its beats. Because I know my heavy ankles wouldn't be able to bring me to the other side before it turned red. I wouldn't race through it. I'd just pretend that I didn't know him. All this time I've been looking for a left sneaker. He's a left sneaker. And then I look at myself and I get it now, I get it. I'm also a left sneaker. Maybe that explains why we're so similar and yet so incompatible in every way. And maybe the cliches are right. Maybe there really are some things that we have to find before we find each other.

The Backseat of the Car

That night when you brought me home for the first time I told you I felt the safest when I was in the front seat of the car that's going full speed ahead because then I would know where it was heading. I might be the slowest revolutionary but I know I no longer take pride in loving boys who use matches instead of lighters now. Three years of running after things that try again made me forget how to count the miles, but I know the exact distance of it dragging me by my hair. I know all the ways to disappoint you and this is what I've been doing. I sit myself in the back of the car and lean my head against the window with my eyes shut so I don't have to know where it's going. And all that I can hear is the car's engine howling like the thunder and thunder has never sounded so in control. But doing things like this only stings my face like the mistral in November and makes you not wanting to call me again. I have a picture of your apartment in England and it makes me picture you lying on your bed looking out the window after the rain when it's turning dark. I would love to wonder if you'd think about me when I don't think about you, but we all moved on when October ended and I have already met someone new several times. I used to think I would still care about you deep down in my heart no matter how long it had been but I was wrong. Sometimes when you wake up from a dream and you start thinking about it, you will discover all the things that don't really make sense. Maybe that's because there are loopholes in our subconsciousness and maybe I don't really care about you at all. Seeing him isn't another way I discovered to disappoint you, that's why I keep it low like how people hide their socks with holes in them. He's two years older and he's not the type of person who tries again. Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it but the things he let go of were intact in every single way as if he didn't want to leave any traces or memories behind. And I had to bite my tongue whenever I saw him so I wouldn't say what I shouldn't say. Maybe the idea of love is great; it's just its capacity that I don't trust. He looks like art and he has a flammable heart that leaves me questioning - ignitable wild thing, can you cry? Can you laugh? Have you loved? And maybe being with somebody so dangerous is the last time I felt safe. I love his mischievous grin and all the trouble he brings. I love how much I don't know about him and yet I feel like I've known him in another life. I love how scary this sounds and I love that he doesn't remind me of you even a bit. I love how he tells stories through rhymes and how reading his lyrics was way much easier than reading his eyes. And I love how I wished he was sober when he wrote that and how I wish I'm drunk while I'm writing this.