What else did I write after the split?
I stop at a page a few back from the one I read earlier, Begin Again, at a poem I wrote just after the separation.
The Bud
Cut the cord, cover me in bruises.
See my scars, more than a few.
Bleeding internal, mind marked with the memories,
And I thought I knew.
Fear the giver, of life, of love. Spun so I’m dizzy.
Split into versions they wanted me to be.
Never the bloom, still the bud.
Haven’t I learned? Haven’t I grown?
How can you tell, sight unseen, known unknown?
All within my grasp, but really I’m alone.
Never the bloom, still the bud.
No progression, left with the truth.
It’s not over, it’s only begun.
Never to bloom, die as a bud.
Want to be wanted, want to be left alone.
Heart still beating,
but cut down to the bone.
And the truth will never be shown.
I take another sip and flip the pages back to the beginning, when I first got the notebook on the honeymoon my ex and I took. I can’t focus on the words, and instead, set it down and reach for another.
The forest green notebook.
I open it up to writing I wouldn’t have recognized before tonight.
This is Pascha’s. It must have got mixed in with mine after I read from it. Great—now I’ve got to give it back, and it’ll look like I took it on purpose. I hope they don’t think that.
I shouldn’t even be reading it—but they let me before.
The dull burn lingers on my tongue as I stare at her notebook, and I wonder why she left it behind. I take mine everywhere.
I close my eyes and flip it to a random page before opening them and reading her smudged words.
Missing a piece of me implies I could ever be whole.
Wanting a firefly in a jar.
Eternal optimist, never, eternally grateful to know,
I’m a stolen body left in a car.
My body knows me, disconnected from reality
Pile them high and ask them to stay.
Imagine the chills on a part of me
that could fight them away.
My body fights me, chemicals take control
Soaring high, then dropping me low.
You’re the side of the mirror taking a toll.
Will it come fast, would you go slow?
Piece it together again,
never will we be together again
Show me where you are.
It’s like a window into her world, into the pain she experiences. This one and the last one sound like she feels lost and taken advantage of. Empty. They make me feel sad. I shudder a long sigh, inhaling the sweet warmth of the vanilla candle, and set the book down.
I need to focus—to learn her lyrics. The ones from the set list.
Pushing my earbuds in, I insert the flash drive Stokes gave me into my laptop on the sofa table. I press play, leaning back against the cushion, cradling my glass on the arm of the chair as the first notes of the first song fill my ears.
It’s a quick and catchy beat. She sings her duet with Stokes, and I just listen this first time through.
I play it once and then again, singing the lyrics as I remember them this time. Smokey vanilla and haunting melodies fill the room as I continue onto the next song, and then the next. Songs about unrequited love, yearning, and desire. Songs of loneliness, heartbreak, and destruction. It starts quick and catchy, and descends into something slower with a heavy mood before switching to playful and edgy once again.
Did Pascha write this all herself? It’s beautiful.
I glance over at the forest green notebook between songs, wondering if my poems could even match up to the dark themes she writes about.
As the last song begins, Stevie catches my attention, jumping up at the ledge of the front windows. I sit up and take out my earbuds. She whimpers and cries, staring at the closed blinds, her head cocked to the side.
My heart races from the transition of loud music to her little cries and I set my drink down. “Stevie,” I call her over to me, eager to ease her anxiety before mine turns up to a volume louder than the music.
She turns to me, hops off, and walks over, sitting down at my feet and staring at the windows again.
What’s caught her attention? She’s not crying anymore. That’s a good sign, right?
She eventually curls up at my feet and I take over the watch post, standing and walking cautiously to the windows, waiting.
For what? A knocking? A noise from outside?
Nothing comes.
My finger nudges the curtain aside just a little, but fog covers everything from the railing of the porch and beyond. No movement, no swirling of the mist or noises I can detect.
Maybe it was the Hilden’s dog.
I return to my seat, pressing one earbud in and lower the music a little, below the normal volume I like to enjoy it at, just in case there’s something I should be listening for.
Something Stevie heard.
I listen to the rest of the album, singing along with the parts I remember, focusing on the timing and words, and keeping my eye on Stevie. The story of their set list is much like their most recent album, Away With You. It’s different than I thought from the first few songs. Or maybe it’s how I’m feeling right now that leads me to believe this whole album is about a chase.
Cat and mouse.
Pascha often sings the part of the mouse, vulnerable and fearful in her lyrics, but once in a while, she’s the cat, and it keeps me more on edge than the male voices. It’s like she’s singing to me. Like she knows something I don’t, and she’s translating it in a way I can understand.
“He’s waiting.
He’s watching.
He wants you.”
I remove the earbud and set it down with the laptop, shaking off the eerie adrenaline her voice evoked in me. I need to stop for now. It’s too much while I’m alone. I’ll be better equipped to memorize it in the light of morning when I can focus.
The
