You gave me the opportunity to smile into my knee. You gave me smiles into my computer monitor. I missed you during the day while you slept.On the third date, I looked over at you over the candlelight and thought you were the cutest. I didn’t know what to eat or where to go because I just wanted to be next to you. I wanted to be nestled in your arms, my body against yours. I had no reason for liking you but that I did. I wanted to look into your eyes and make chit chat. I wanted to strip you and take pictures of your bed head. I wondered why you didn’t hold my hand or why you didn’t kiss me or why you didn’t look into my eyes. I moved that drink from the armrest between us so you could hold my hand. I left my arm there so maybe you could touch it. You kissed me awkwardly by that bus stop so many dates later. Your bed broke and we never came. We never shared a moment, making out by the water, in the rain. We were there, we just didn’t have that moment.
You made my question Toronto. You made me try to rethink my career aspiration of 6 years. I was dreading the day I had to make that decision. You were the first to do that to me.
I cried today. I cried while I placed those dollar store ornaments on my Charles Brown tree. I cried while drinking the foam of my 750ml Stella Artois. I cried then wiped my tears into my bubble bath with Adele. I will be okay tomorrow.
I am grateful you were once here. You made me realize I can feel vulnerable, feel love, feel neediness, feel hopelessly out of control of all the emotions yet be so happy. I felt sad, disappointed, not hurt, that there couldn’t be more. I felt the spark, maybe you didn’t, but that is okay. I guess we can be friends one day, just not today.
I sat on the 43 bus towards Joyce Station. My regular ride home from work. As usual, I scrolled through Facebook, and then Twitter, looking for some casual reading material. “A Modern-day Lynching” – an article shared by the BuzzFeed News twitter account. I read. It was the story of a man named Craig Anderson that was killed by a group of young men because he was Black. I read, in pain, in disgust, in confusion. Then my Spotify playlist shuffles, and “Love is Endless” by Mozella is playing in my headphones.
How tragically timed, yet serendipity. As if trying to shine hope on this modern madness.
It has been a while since I returned from my trip with a lengthy title. It was hard to me to put this trip in words. The majority of the travels was done alone. I was in every sense free. I was free to waste and splurge at the whims of the moment. I stalled and rushed in accordance of my desires. There were times when a moment was so blissful, I turned and wished for a familiar face to smile back at me. It was a great trip, a trip of poetry that has yet to become of words.
Some moments have no words. Moments where I lived in the content and forlorn knowledge of its passing.
I remember walking in Gion between the upscale drinking and dining establishments. Rushed by was a woman in white makeup wearing a lavender embroidered kimono. Men turned to photograph her. Later I learn I had encountered the mythical event of a geisha rushing between appointments. It all felt so ordinary and expected.
I remember eating my 20,000 yen meal. A kaiseki traditional multi-course meal. Feeling mildly stuffed and heated. I remember walking out and she, my 50-something-year-old server, bowing profusely as if my meal had saved her entire village. He, the old man whose job was to stand by the door, stood and watched me walk away for as long as the road would allow him.
I remember casually looking out the Hikari Shinkansen train and seeing Mount Fuji. I was only certain of it being Mount Fuji after the lady beside also took a photo.
I remember the sight of the snowy mountain and the sound the snow made when it came falling down from the tree branches behind me, while the lower portion of the body sat submerged in the onsen. Afterwards, I recall the chatter of old ladies over ice cream cones while I drank Hida milk in the resting area.
I remember seeing my 30,000 won hweh being brought to my table. Unrecognizable globs of seafood recently dead. The octopus tentacle thrashing in the sesame oil. Later noticing the other black creature was also semi-alive, its pores opening and closing on the plate. I spent the next hour sitting in a coffee shop soothing my stomach with an abnormally sour hot lemon tea.
I remember my jelly body being scrubbed raw by the odd smelling lady with permed hair. Few more dips in the bubbling waters, then I lay drinking sikye on a straw matt.