Slender threads and things to treasure

It had been 15 minutes since the movie started, when his hand met mine. His smooth fingers tracing the outline of my hand, lingering at my finger tips. He traced circles and squares and hearts on to my palm. We played this silent game until his fingers found the courage to interlock with mine. I looked up at him, his eyes were on the TV, but I could see a smile in the corner of his lips. Then, he slowly curved his free arm around my waist, securing me into his warmth. I shifted a little, finding the perfect niche between his arms and his chest. No one seemed to notice our change of position.

He let my hand go, and gently swept my hair off my shoulders, placing them behind my ears. He whispered, Are you comfortable? I smiled. He nodded, as he leaned his head closer. I could feel his inhales and exhales on my cheek.

He continued to whisper in my ear. I bit my lip, as his continued to get closer and closer. They moved from my ear, to my jaw, and then stopped. Neither of us were watching the movie anymore. He placed his hand on my face; his thumb stroked my cheek lightly. I looked up at him, as he inched closer. He smiled and slowly tilted my chin upwards.

I never got there

Gnarls Barkley - Who's Gonna Save My Soul?


He will bring me flowers. He will buy me chocolates. He will compliment me and sing me praises. He will promise to love me.

He will provide me with warmth from his arms. He will give me his shoulder and chest to rest, cry, or sleep on. He will place his heart on a silver platter and serve it to me.

He will reassure me and hold me. He will whisper certainty and conviction in my ears. He will kiss me and he will love me. He will put me on a pedestal and boast about me.

He is good enough – more than good enough. But it probably won’t work out.

It’s not you . . . it’s me.

I’ve woken up and recognized that the above cliché has become the reality of my life. It really is me and not you.

There are a lot of things I cannot do. There are even more things that I am not willing to try – and therefore my capabilities of pursuit and attainment for it is foreign to me. I’ve had it before – lived and breathed it. But I am no veteran. It isn’t like riding a bike – it hasn’t become natural to me.

These hurdles I’ve set up – however many – will never really gauge how well the race will end. They are higher and far more challenging even for myself. How then can I expect someone to leap over one – let alone, the multitudes that I’ve set up?

The finish line will not be as impressive as you’ve imagined it to be. But the chase for this uncommon prize has pushed you forward, probably blinded. At the end of it, you will stand there alone. You will look back and realize that I’ve given up – that I’ve barely made it halfway. You’re angry and hurt, and all I could do is look at you and mouth the words, I’m so sorry.

I never got there. I never get there.

Afternoon Bike Rides

It’s 4:00 on a Friday afternoon and the sun is blazing. Thirty one degrees outside and I’ve got nothing but time. No homework and my parents aren’t home. The ice cream truck is about to round the corner. A loonie and four quarters – I am loaded.

My hands are sticky, my shirt is stained, but my attention is elsewhere. I stare at the bright red stop sign standing at the end of my street. It’s calling me. How fast can I bike to that stop sign and back? This is going to be grand. Time me.

I’m pedaling as fast as I can. My hair is whipping my face. I’m yelling at the top of my lungs. I’m flying. I swear I’ve got wings.

Fourty-five seconds. It must be some kind of record. I’m going to compete in the Olympics when I grow up. You try. I’ll time you. Ready. Go.

When the simple pleasures in life were exactly that – simple. What I’d give to be naïve again.