Maybe, Baby, You're Right
My baby is breaking my heart. He breaks my heart everyday. Every time I am looking in my baby's eyes, every time I am touching my baby's chai-tinted skin, every time I am hearing my baby's soft voice, his little sighs, his tiny moans, he is breaking my heart. Because I know my baby will soon grow tired of me. He will grow disenchanted with the sharp green of my eyes, my alabaster flesh, my layers of clothing, my dangling earrings, the blackness of my hair, my crooked smile, the piercings in my nose and lip, my constantly chipped and peeling nail polish, the graceful shape of my neck where he plants most of his kisses. My baby will soon get sick of me telling him that I love him, he will tire of the way I stroke his side, that smooth symphony of skin, he will become bored when I kiss the back of his neck, the way I hold him when he sleeps, how I stroke his curls, listen to him breathe, try to guess if he's seeing me behind his closed eyelids. My baby will soon hate the clutter of my bedroom, my tiny single bed, my messy, sprawling handwriting, my lack of eloquence, my constant late night calls and pointless text messages, my amateur attempts at cooking, recipes copied from Italian and Vegan cookbooks at work.
One day, my baby will quit responding. He will stop calling me back. He will say maybe we are moving too fast, and he will take back all the I love yous that spilled so willingly from his lips only weeks ago. My baby will look away from me, stoic as I cry, he will awkwardly place his long arms around me and I will shrug off his touch. He will look offended but really he won't be, he will be grateful, he will stare down at the stacks of books on my floor, at the empty notebooks propped in a corner, at my green Vans sneakers by my desk chair, at the mess of hangers, bras, unpaid bills, cds, and reference books scattered on my desk, he will look everywhere but at me, at my heaving shoulders as I sob, as I am thinking everything, I've given you everything, and he will say “Maybe we should take a break” and I will think a break? A break? A break, that is so wrong, we are so right, we both like the old McNuggets better, we both hate Ryan Reynolds and Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean, and our lips, our lips and hands and eyes were made for each other, how can you leave when we are so perfect, when our bodies melt together at night, when you kiss me and tell me everything is alright and I actually believe you, we drove to the Arcade Fire show together and couldn't stop touching each other as they played, remember when you drove across town to meet me on my lunch break and we stood behind the Baymont Inn and we couldn't stop kissing, touching, feeling, how I almost cried when you left me in the parking lot and I walked back to work, how we bought that bad ecstasy from JR at work and we both thought for a minute maybe it was working and we kept listening to Easy/Lucky/Free over and over again and you told me you would take me far away, far away from here, you promised you promised you promised and how sometimes, late at night, we would place our ears over each other's hearts and listen to the steady thump-thump, thump-thump, how beautiful that sound was, how comforting to know we were alive, we were in love, we were unstoppable.
But instead I will turn away so you can't see my eyes, the sharp green shiny from unshed tears, the broken about to come out, and I will just say, “Maybe, baby, you're right.”
Created: Jul 10, 2010Document Media