Love Triangle With The Moon
I wait here patiently for you all the time. Sometimes it feels like I’ll always be here and it certainly feels like you think I will be. You come and go as you please; sometimes calmly and with warmth, sometimes thrashing about and white with anger. You leave little bits of trash strewn about when you come to visit, they’re little reminders that you’ve been here and that you’ll be here again and at least it’s something for me to look at until you return. It’s taken me a while to figure out, but I think there’s a pattern to your visits. I don’t know where you go when you’re gone but lately I can sense when you’re coming back and I realize my exterior has hardened in your absence; maybe I’m just trying not to crumble.
I miss you when you’re gone. Isn’t that such a silly little thing to say? I tried to think of a way to say it that would dress it up a bit. Sometimes when I’m waiting for you and sitting here alone with my thoughts I begin to feel like I don’t have enough depth for you, like you’re going to swallow me whole the next time you come. You’ve been slowly taking pieces of me with you and I worry that one of these days you’ll look at these tiny bits you’ve carried away and wonder what I could possibly have left to give – I want you to know that there is more. But right now I’m tired and I think I’m dehydrated and I can’t think of a better way to say it – so, I miss you when you’re gone.
I’ve seen my reflection in your eyes lately when you visit at night and I can’t say I’ve been pleased. There are lines on my face where there once were none and my body is dull and round where it used to be sharp. I know these things happen naturally over time but I think my being close to you has accelerated the process; still, I cannot seem to move and some days I think nothing short of a natural disaster will rip me from you. I’ve grown used to your comings and goings and it’s all become a comforting sort of white noise, even when you’re at your most violent.
I’ve come to realize that you might not be fully in control of what you’re doing to me, of whether you gently caress my cheek or spit on my face as a greeting. Though it’s true that you are a force to be reckoned with, I don’t think that the source of your power comes from within. I think it comes from her, from her closeness or her distance. From whether she’s hiding or showing her light. Recently I’ve noticed you gazing up at her in adoration, and I suppose I can’t fault you for that.
She is beautiful – glowing, even. I’d be stupid not to acknowledge that fact, though she is completely unaware of my existence and it feels unfair that I should have to. Sometimes I feel like you compare the two of us and see my imperfections in her light; it’s then that you crash into me the hardest, that you take the most of me with you when you leave. Afterwards I’m left here alone to recover, where I’ve always been and maybe where I’ll always be. I wonder if she knows about the effect she has on you, the push and pull her spinning creates; does she know you’re looking?
It’s strange; she’s so far away from us both, yet you’re frothing at the mouth and my face is salty and wet.
Rosemary Donahue was born and raised in Southern California and is currently working on a BA in English at Cal State San Bernardino. She is most interested in personal essays and creative nonfiction, and is inspired by the unseen forces that can both bring people together and make them fall apart.