shane-koyczan-poems:

Promise

We never promised each other much. We were always just kind of touch and go, as if we knew we’d know that somehow we’d grow differently. So we did, and we do, and none of this is to say that it wasn’t worth going through, or that I care any less about you. Shoulders to lean on are hard to come by. I know because there were times I would have broken my own neck, just so that I’d have one of my own to cry on.

And I remember when each finger was a pawn moving slowly across the chessboard of your body, and we made each game last. Passed up each avenue of attack because neither one of us were trying to win. So how do we begin again when that feels like now and this feels like then? When all I can do is tell you, “if you’ve got something that needs saying, tonight I’m paying dues.” I’ve got a pocket full of blues and two pennies to rub together, which means I’m wealthy enough that I can finally afford to pay attention. I’m listening.

And I know right now it’s somehow like that kid sitting in math class, terribly aware of his first boner. It’s hard. But difficulty has never been a good enough reason to describe the effort it takes to make the good times and the memories worth having. And they were, and they are, and I never would have come this far if you weren’t worth the sleepless nights or abandoned appetites of a heart, now rail-thin, because of the constant hunger strikes. 

In your absence, I’m finding value. Because what starves you carves you, and I’m chipping away the rough edges of a statue built to memorialize everything we’ve been through. And when I’m done, I’m going to set it against the backdrop of the sun and stare. Just no matter where I go, it’ll always be etched into the back of my mind, stencilled in behind whatever future I have left to find. 

Maybe we were never meant to last. Maybe we’re only meant to reflect fondly upon a past where we cast ourselves in the lead role of a one-year sitcom. One that had the critics standing, while putting hand to palm, in an ovation we’re still getting curtain calls for. And the stage floor was a graveyard for the freshly cut roses that we waded through to take our bows and say, “thank you”. It was beautiful.

And it was, and it is, and none of it was ever show-biz. But we were waiting for lights to dim on a stage where we set ourselves to music. As if the swelling violins could ever mimic the hidden moments found in the theatre where we kept audiences stapled to their seats. And they watched us, looking for vacancies they could occupy in the spaces between our heartbeats, as if silence was a room for rent, and we both went “shh.” 

But the beats themselves; they were loud enough to drown out the applause. And we laughed at the ushers left looking in the aisles for the dropped jaws of patrons who still can’t believe we took time to find beauty in the flaws we possess. That there’s only something better to be found in allowing our collective damage to coalesce. And all we confess of ourselves forever is that we will make it through this. We’re going to make it through this, like a big-ass jug of cool-aid with legs and arms busting through a brick wall to quench the thirst of our loneliness and say, “fuck yeah.” 

Yes, I miss you. When I’m not looking, the softest parts of me will issue restraining orders. Not the kind that define borders or boundaries; these are the kind that will keep me in place when I ask, “please, call me when you get there.” Because every somewhere I go to, is just another place that reminds me I miss you. 

And my broken heart is where I keep the scar-tissue that I used to dry my eyes when a tear tries to make a break for it. I’ve built my eyelids into an Alcatraz, where every prisoner has a parole board meeting scheduled for yesterday. And they played dominoes until time comes full circle, like a sunrise, and today tries to set them free because they’ll be locked up here until I let them go. Until it’s safe to let you know; you’re my best friend. And that some things end so that other things can begin. Sometimes an ending can be an origin. That history is a resin that can keep two people stuck together, that change can be a tether if you let it.

I’ll always want to kiss you. Or touch you. Or do that thing that drives you crazy. And by that, I mean you literally go crazy when I call you “cranky pants.” Sorry, but it makes me laugh.  And that’s important to someone who’s given more than half of their life to tragedy. I keep your side of the bed empty with a just-in-case mentality, as if hope’s middle name is maybe, and maybe you miss me too. 

One day, you and I are going to make it through this. And we’ll look back and realize that we have, and we did. Promise.

  - Shane Koyczan