dollhouse love

 

One more time, we got this.

Even without glasses, because eyesight is overrated and headphones help me more. And because I left them on the floor, fumbling in the forty degree dark, crawling to the fireplace with my keyboard and blanket. And I left them in a gazebo at midnight when I was a little more awkward and making out in cars, and there was no ocean where we lived so I tried instead to drown myself in love. This kid in a band held my hand back down those small town blocks, and helped me find what I needed so I could see the streets again.

Twelve summers later, he inked up those fingers for me, and held mine across half the country. We crossed all our t’s and dotted our i’s and had it all mapped out to get entirely lost in the magic that happens when you strip down a life to nothing more than two glowing souls, tangled together and unattached to the tangible.

There should be a warning label though, where my mouth is. Trying to build me a life from broken things takes so much work, and being forced to first break down all my fucked up walls is so entirely unfair. All the roads caught on fire in the rear view, and eventually I told him I broke the microwave because the mediocre broke me and maybe he shouldn’t have married me. But just to prove all his patience he plugged it back in the wall, and laughed at me, I suppose for thinking I am so tough. He taught me you can’t jump off bridges that have already been burnt and then kept the keys safely in his pocket while I kicked and cried like a child until I fell asleep.

Just a kid and his radio, he helped me to find what I needed so I could hear the music again.

Now when we wake up, golden light and warm lips give us the pines on the wall in a shadow, like the projectors that made desks romantic in the dark. Temporary but beautiful nonetheless, until the tasks of the day takeover and our tender hearts are told time and time again that there is so much to do and be done, but no one taught us how and they all forgot the why. So we spin in circles up the stairs and down them again, sending grocery lists in texts where love letters should spill and signing school papers until the sun has set and smoke fills the sky and his fingers find my hair. The string lights come undone and all the children sleep and when they wake up, so do I.

Sometimes, it will be this way. Like a dollhouse in your palm, you can see the whole picture. Watch me paint my eyes and put myself together, watch me twirl around the deck and have tea in pretty dresses and mostly empty rooms. Sometimes the electricity is on in all the halls and closets, and life is so transparent and weightless, like the mountain air that pours in where the walls are cut in half. And I want you to see how happiness works, so I put on a sweater instead of closing the shutters.

And you can watch me take it off, too. Blushing suits my pretty porcelain face.

Sometimes, you may choose to be my witness, and take from what you see all that you need to remember how hearts keep beating.

And when your arms are tired from carrying all that you do, and you just need a lullaby, find me. Tucked away in my imaginary attic, just a small amber square in the middle of the dark blue morning. You can see tiny splinters and too many tacky gel pens and a notebook with blue lines on the paper and the name Parker, scribbled in between the messy math problems. Mostly, you can seek comfort in the lyrics, and the effortless way they tug at all the corners, in cursive or bold or helvetica black.

Sometimes, everything else is dark. The only thing you will find is a torn page, or a fuckton of them crumpled in the cobwebs, catching the tiny plastic curtains on fire and choking the life out of the thoughts in my lace bonnet head.

But some of us have learned to keep ourselves warm in the most unconventional ways.