I can't write straight anymore. All my memories have been infected by my fiction, and my fiction is propped up by my reminiscence. Sometimes I feel like I'm remembering stories, and my past is just one long, tall tale. They've entwined into the double helix of my mental DNA.
I've mined myself to fill the page. I really shouldn't wonder when the page and I start to bleed into ourselves.
When I was little, I dreamt of angels falling from heaven.
The beginnings are always hazy, but I remember a sky tinted the same hazy gray that heralded terrible, tropical typhoons. I know the clouds moved heavily, like swollen pregnant women. I know I was always alone.
And then the angels fell, like some strange storm. They fell unto the garage of our old townhouse, the feathers of their giant wings catching on the metal spikes of our bright red gate. They rustled in the tropical breeze, just like the leaves of our banana trees. They came in all sorts of colors, dancing in the air like scented paper.
This dream comes to me every so often. The endings are never the same. Sometimes, I would cast my eyes down, afraid to look up, afraid of what they might see in me. Sometimes I would stare at their faces, as if I could divine some kind of meaning in their eyes. As if their barely parted lips were some kind of silent oracle.
Last night, I dreamt this dream again. And in the chaos of these strange, beautiful creatures, I saw you.
Your dark hair is longer than I remember it. Your eyes are lighter. But I recognize the planes of your face, the comforting angles. It's the same vaguely aquiline nose, the same bronzed skin, the same soft mouth. I can even see the edges of your tattoo creeping up the nape of your neck.
I wish I could hold your hand. I wish I could retrace the path my fingers took when they slid from the tip of your chin to the line of your throat, down the middle of your chest, and into the soft little pool of your belly button. I wish I could hear you laugh.
I am staring into your face, but you can't see me. Just as well, I tell myself. [You always said, in that soft, charming way of yours, that I wasn't easy to love.] Just as well.
You're cheating. It isn't fair for you to haunt me this way.
Originally published on Tumblr, August 2010.