Tag: Heartwork

In Theory: “There Is No Spoon”

trE
tvman
Taken at the Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk, VA

I tap —
backspace seven times,
an email I said I
would not send and I am
here, in front of a computer
listening to music that
only reminds me of
you.

I flit —
I flow from one
word to the next.

there is no calming of
nerves
no antidote suitable
enough to render me
settled.

rice is bubbling,
broccoli roaring in the pot
turkey wings sizzling with
sweet potatoes, still I
backspace… tap — flit — start

and stop all over again.
I am not here.

I watch each word appear,
letter by letter
every thought is centered around
a looming memory.
my “E” key is stuck,
I strike it back to life.

I can’t have it dying
on me.
not now.
not today.

I am amusing myself,

you see?
This is a great space,
in between theories and spoons
and matrixes and moons.

And I convince myself
that these are not words
and there was no us
and this is not a letter
so it is not real.

None of it.
But it was, wasn’t it?

The archives have more
than their share of drafts — 
this one, though.
it’s finally finished.

but I flag the
send button from sight
too afraid to commit
these words to a pair
of eyes that spent the
last nine months
forgetting what I look
like.

Originally published on September 10, 2017, via Medium.

 

Known Unknown

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blackmanbeauty
Courtesy of Clem Onojeghuo/Unsplash

My crush doesn’t know there’s a word on my tongue for him. He sees past me, looks at my smile as a red plum, ready to steal its juices — sip the glow. He whips past cafes and brunch spots, knuckling a worn laptop, it’s where he stores his words.

I am the menacing sun, effervescent and demanding. I stand in his path, a weeping dialogue begins. I know he knows, but he doesn’t want to know and I don’t want to say anything that will lead to more questions of who we are.

Label purgatory.

If there’s such a thing — that’s where we’ve landed. The back and forth of indecisiveness eats us alive.

He is the blue moon on a dark Spring night, the silent harp. I, heart in hand, legs shaking and teary eyes welling up, break the ice; “You know, we cannot pretend forever.”

Thinking he would understand and soon… Soon… We would morph into a blessed abundance.

But he chuckles, wipes the scuff marks off his brand new Chucks and whispers, “but I am not pretending.”

He breaks my heart without trying.

©Tremaine L. Loadholt, 2018. All Rights Reserved Originally published in A Cornered Gurl on Medium.

Your Version of Love

trE

 

runningart
Courtesy of Commission4Mission.com

You speak of love
as if it’s a thing to burn
a common troublemaker
sent to be noosed
your conscience wiped clean
of its existence

it is your unhappy place
full of worms and
unpaid tithes
a sermon focused on
your past from a backsliding
preacher

You send it to
fetch you a pail
of clean water, it
brings you oil instead

this is your version
of love —
the kind that I
have been running away from
since we met

Originally published on Medium via P.S. I Love You.