I keep a little book. It is a pretty thing, it’s lines are straight and true. The clear pages smell like sweet clean goodness. I started filling it up with memories. Men, boys, ghosts of past suitors. There are many pristine pages. I have been lucky in the fact I just need a few words to sum up most. The few pages that may have their lines marred with black ink, my handwriting is straight and neat. A quick catalog of a person, his actions, and why he is gone. Other lines, the font of my writing takes on italics and bolds. Losing the clean documentation they once knew. The catalog is now a string of feelings, wrapped up with sweet memories, a rush of emotions through the arm and to the hand hastily scribbled onto once blameless pages.
Sometimes a declaration of guilt, perhaps on my part. Mostly on his. Half. Incomplete records of interactions. Truth only to me, not to him. The more interactions we had, the more words to describe it. The more feelings I felt, the more lines become blighted.
No more did they have the role of being perfectly clear, willing to take me on. Me, after I caressed their surface with careful fingertips. Now, they hold onto it all. The feelings, sentimental or not. The hearty hurt dripping from the pen tip. I have but a very very select few who have this rush, this heavy hearted hurt.
Some may ask ”Is this a journal of my encounters with love?” No, it couldn’t be. It is the record of all the times that love was missed. Be it a thick stare, eyes meeting eyes across a busy street. Or maybe phone calls shared from our comfortable beds, never to meet. Maybe it was the fledgling of time built up with trust, and affection finally taken romantic, delayed, fulfilled but only for several months. Maybe it is about the horrifying blind dates, or denials. Rejections. Embarrassing miscommunication. Quick or long. Hefty or light. It is a record. Maybe of my growth. My naivety of love’s decline. Maybe it’s just foolish. Maybe it is necessary.
All I know is I keep a little book.
-Kat Keegan August 11, 2012