Haiku #40: Stomach Drop

“Will you pray for me?” 

Is the scariest question

You’ve ever asked me. 



I am in love with his words. I want to hold them to my chest and let them sing me to sleep even though lullabies were never really my thing.

They’re not mine. They belong to some nameless girl on some nameless street with bluer eyes and blonder hair; the picture of perfection. I only borrow them from time to time.

But that’s okay. Loving a person takes time. Loving words takes an instant.

So all that I need is a little bit of time to play pretend; to slip into the shoes of a girl that I’ll probably never meet and fall finally, blissfully asleep.


You offered me Paris once. We were having some absurd conversation about taking over the world, and you promised to win me Paris.

“It’s romantic,” you said.

Without realizing it, I had let you believe a lot of things that weren’t true. And that was the moment that I realized that you wanted a lot more from me than I wanted from you.

When you asked me if I liked you, I said yes. Because I did like you, just not enough to make any sort of commitment. And I made that clear. Or I thought I did.

But maybe I didn’t.

I hurt you and I didn’t mean to and that hurt me.

I didn’t want Paris. I never did. Paris was someone else’s dream; someone else’s idea of a happy ending.

If you had known me half as well as you thought you did, you would have realized that.

You scared me. Did you know that? Every time that you asked me to pray for you before you went out to be with the people that I refused to meet, I was terrified.

Because you were never much for the God thing. You made that clear from the start.

But for some reason, my faith was important to you.

It wasn’t until Paris that I realized that I needed out. By that time, I had waded in too deep to sever ties without hurting you.

I don’t know if you’re ever going to read this, but I want you to know that I’m sorry that I couldn’t find a less painful way to leave than cutting you out all together.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you when it was still easy.

How Love Works

I know that something is wrong from the moment that I spot you sitting out in the rain. You’ve never really had a flair for the dramatic, and besides, you’re always talking about how it messes with your hair.

I sit down beside you and don’t say anything because at this point I have no idea what’s wrong. But I do have that feeling that I get deep in the pit of my stomach, a subtle shifting of body chemistry that makes me feel like something isn’t quite as it’s supposed to be.

You put your head on my shoulder in the place that you’ve been carving out since we were six and you punched Peter Galecki in the nose for calling me a sissy.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

I know it’s not going to be good because you don’t even look at me. You just pull your sleeve away from your wrist, laying bear the mess of scars that criss-cross your arm like a game of pick-up sticks.


I knew about them. And you knew that I knew about them. But you never said anything, so neither did I. Instead, I pulled you closer and tried to love you harder than anyone else so that maybe, just maybe, you’d see in you everything that I did.

“Why not?”

This isn’t a movie. We’re not soul mates. You know it, I know it, and neither of us would have it any other way. So I don’t kiss you. I don’t give you some  answer that came to me from the heavens meant to solve all of your troubles. Things like that don’t happen.

Instead, I put an arm around you and pretend that your tears are raindrops and your tremors are from the cold. I refuse to let you fall apart alone.

That’s what friends do.


I like your soul the best, I think.

Don’t get me wrong. I like all of other other parts of you, too.

But your soul…

It’s sort of blink-and-you-miss-it, but then you wonder how you could never have noticed it before.

And, God, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop staring.

You haven’t caught me as of yet, but I doubt that you’d mind too much if you did.

You’d probably just smile that smile that I’ve come to eagerly anticipate and be genuinely confused.

And that’s what I love about you.

Your innocence.

Your soul.

Your everything.


I like it when I can make you laugh.

Because then the fissure lines that she left in her wake fuse together and for a split second I know that I made you forget whatever it was that she did to you.

And I’m not saying that I’ve been commissioned to come after all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and once and for all put you to rights again. I can’t see that far into the future, nor would I want to.

But I do know that you need a friend.

So for now I’m content with being the girl who makes you laugh.