Waiting for a Lover
by Sandra Cisneros
And what if you don’t arrive?
And what if you do?
I’m so afraid
I cross my fingers,
make a wish,
You can’t hurt me yet.
I light the candles.
Say my prayers.
Scent myself with mangoes.
I like the possibility of anything,
the little fear I feel
when you enter a room.
I haven’t a clue of the who of you.
And what if you do like me?
And what if you do?
I can’t think.
Dress myself in slinky black,
my 14-karat hoops and my velvet spikes.
Smoke two cigars.
I’m doing loopity loops.
Listen - cars roar by. All night.
I’m waiting for the one that stops.
All my life. Listen -
You want to know what falling in love feels like?
It feels like the 4th of July in Malibu
sitting in the sand,
sweating in your new bathing suit
when none of your friends will enter the ocean with you.
It feels like that moment when you think
and go into the waves on your own—
toes first, then calves, knees, thighs…
gasping when the water crashes over your sex and hits your pelvis.
It feels like the caress of seaweed
on your shoulder as the sweat glides off,
the joy of feeling clean again,
a promise so alluring you bend your knees
and let the water roll over your head.
It feels like the darkness under your feet
when you notice that there are no more rocks to hold you up:
just the buoyancy of water,
and you think fuck it one more time,
kicking out away from the shore.
It feels like that big wave you see coming;
rolling closer along the horizon…
you can’t help but swim to it.
It batters you,
sending your arms and legs akimbo,
your sun drenched skin slamming into the shore.
It feels like dragging in air
as you spit sand and dust off grit
just to realize
that the only way to become clean again
is to go back into the waves.
—by Sondra Rose Marie
So I know I said i was going to write something new every week. And I did! But this.
I feel terrible because I can’t remember your last name. I’m a romantic—I bet you wouldn’t have guessed—and I remember writing your name in my diary right after I met you. Your last name was really important because you have the 28th most common girl’s name of the 1980s and there were three other girls in our social circle with your name. We all met under such crazy circumstances that I had to write about you all, which is why it’s crazy that I don’t remember something so simple.
It turns out that you were the last innocent crush I ever had. It’s not like my thoughts about you were all that innocent (sorry, but I’m not sorry: you’re really gorgeous), but I wasn’t in the business of guarding myself yet so I was pure excitement. I lit up like a Lite Brite every time we talked or you chose to sit with me when the group met up. Thinking back on it now, I’m sure you knew how I felt and I think you were pretty amused by me.
Do you remember that day I ran into you in that bookstore in Santa Monica? I walked into a table because I was so nervous and excited when I saw you. You laughed, but it wasn’t mean-spirited and then you stopped to talk with me for a bit. It totally made my day. I remember driving home elated because we’d spoken and you should feel really good about that; you are (a) awesome enough to make a girl’s day just by saying ‘hey’ and (b) the kind of woman who takes a minute to indulge (but not overtly encourage) a younger admirer instead of blocking her out.
I haven’t seen you since then, which is exactly as the universe intended it to be. You exist in my life story only as the beautiful girl covered in undulating patterns of perfect tawny freckles that I never got to kiss. I know that you appear in a million life stories as a million different characters; we all do. Usually we never learn who we are for people, so I hope this is one account of your existence that makes you smile.
With sincere affection,
Your adorably obvious admirer
So lately the fact that I used to write has come up a lot: my old blog of stories, my poetry, my vignettes… even at my dance studio my instructor told me it’s time to start writing things down in order to get deeper into myself and, therefore, my dances.
So I guess that’s that.
My almost two year stint of trying to not be a writer is over. I’ll start writing again. I’m kind of tired of people asking why I stopped, anyways. So I found this ask list and—instead of fishing for asks—I’m just going to use it as a bunch of prompts. I’ll hold myself to one post a week, I think that’s fair. Here we go.
She said, “Kiss me one
last time—before you go.” I
tried to steal her soul.