Sitting outside at a cafe,
she says
"Oh my gosh, your life could be a movie.
SOMEONE
should write this movie."
And I think to myself,
Please.
Take it.Take this story off my hands:
I don't need to hold it,
I already survived it.
I need to sleep.
I need to sleep and not dream
of the crash after the climax,
not scream as I slip into another plot hole.
Take this story off my hands,
take it off my heart.
Take all the things that go with it
Take the guilt,
take the sadness,
take the loss.
Take it all.
I don't need to remember any of it.
I don't
WANT
to remember any of it.
Use my story
write that movie,
and I might just watch it
someday,
when I can bear to see
how easy all those choices look in the retrospect,
how small a life looks when it turns to exposition,
how funny prison stories can be when the film doesn't span to the cage,
how logical it is for the storyline for my husband to die when you only have to watch-
safely-
from a distance,
sipping a cup of coffee
al fresca,
in beautiful
Southern California.
The skies are blue here,
always,
and you can see the sun,
even when she's only shining
through the moon.
People here are always warm,
but I am not,
and my people say that
when your hands are cold,
it's because a ghost is holding them.
I have Hollywood-worthy ghosts,
a hundred characters that arced their way out of my script.
They hold me so close
that I never sweat anymore,
and the only saltwater in my life
is the Pacific Ocean
and the tears I fill it with.
I wear a jacket
every day
in Southern California.
And I wonder if you take this story,
and turn it into something beautiful-
when the credits roll,
will my ghosts let go?
Will I feel the sun again?
