pondered by S. Kukulka
She’d heard those exact lyrics, by that exact singer, in that exact venue, exactly a year ago. The company, her coat, the temperature, damn even her drink: they all mimicked her first visit to the tiny jazz club. But this time (yes this time!) her heart was her own. In the face of those heartbreaking melodies she recalled her memory as it played vividly behind her lids. Automatically it returned to her, but without the same weight – yes it was lighter, easier, calmer, simpler. All motions playing out, she saw she had come full circle – quite literally – and although she would probably come around another few times in her life, it was clear she would always be alright. Drowning in corniness she shook her gritted teeth loose, and one last time the line was sung - I’ll dial D for denial.
I cried into your hair last night. At the bus stop, dolled up and beautiful, I spun on my heel and fell onto your shoulder for what seemed like eternity. I cried for everything I couldn’t say – for the the constructs in which we live, the hardships we face, and the envy we try so desperately to ignore. While you were my shoulder, you were also my pain, tormenting me with a delicate sorrow that froze my throat – I couldn’t say, but how I wish I could. The city had struck me, ferociously reminding me of my status and lack of conformity. Buildings appearing taller and street lights brighter, I slunk onto the bus with muddy eyes. With only a hand connecting us, we didn’t speak a word, internally wishing for your forgiveness. I knew I would sleep and all would be fine, but for that moment you let me crumble into your arms without explanation, and I truly felt loved.