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She
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by , Allison Hart 
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In the end it was that little sliver of physical contact that did me in. I suppose I should’ve told you that I don’t like being touched by those who know me best, that the years had made me ever tender too the shoulder tap or slight palm on my cheek. But in her hands I turned to gold and felt my organs fix in place
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! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! I keep feeling her slip through my fingers each time it gets slower but I still can’t make a fist it’s a dream where you can’t stop running even though your feet never leave the sidewalk it’s the strand of hair on her you always notice but never push back it’s not your thread to spool.
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She was all mud and frozen calves when it began. More than once I caught her waiting to pull keys from doors, kissing the frame and staining the paint with color 525.
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Girls who kick crushed dixie cups along are far from the mystery they want to be. Fluorescents mark imagined flaws and they pull on their hips each morning, glancing quickly in the mirror at today’s new state (to linger implies hot-breathed affection, admiration for a darker God).
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The hair on her legs stood at the slightest gust of possibility to quicken the pace of things. The girl could never run but oh did she dream of leaving the ground and disappearing back into it with fractured feet in thicker shoes. It was always time to go. Her bones were restless and tortured themselves through the night, kicking out when it was time to lay still. There were always more bruises than the night before and I swear once she grew so tender she couldn’t move at all.
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I used to hold her hands when they froze, a quiet ghost meeting flesh with just a whisper. Her fingers held position so expertly I’m sure she knew I was there. Our moments shared were too often set before off-white walls and molded carpets. Her homes never resembled the picturesque landscapes she was born into. She sought no mountains, no waterfalls. Only a dripping sink and peeling paint, loose linoleum tiles under her feet.
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After we met her fingers never stopped drumming. I’d wake up in the morning and in her sleep they’d be softly flicking my spine, faster than her breath but just as hard to register. Her mother’s favorite postcards littered the space between us, a makeshift rug on the dusted floor.
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She was born to the Earth in the purple light of a 24-hour diner. Her parents were in their favorite booth and after that night they had no trouble getting it. The staff though she was born to them of greasy gods, filled with fresh-brewed nectar and ambrosia right off the skillet. They called her their little morsel and raised her on grilled cheese stacked high as she wished. It broke their hearts when she skipped town at 16
but what more could they expect from a girl raised by drifters?
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Her lips kept buzzing, she told me once, though I could never feel it. She said it ran in the family and from what I can tell it was all that linked them, no hand-me-down bracelets or prized silver, just the animated tremor that kept her out of silence.
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My thoughts always shuddered to a cold snap when I looked at her. Who thought a beanie could be so radiant, smudged glasses so captivating? I kept falling into the gap in her teeth when she smiled so I resolved at first to stop making her laugh. As we both know though she was never so easily reigned in.
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To this day I'm sure her chuckle moves mountains and I wouldn't blame you for leaning close at the theater, counting your own breaths as hers reach out to the players onstage. I wish anyone the best of luck in that position, where her knees are so close and your fingertips shake so steadily near them.
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When you embrace her now does she still hold you the same? Is it still tight and private in a crowded coffee shop? Does her sweater still work seamlessly through your fingers? Can you feel her eyes close against your cheek and does the precision drive you blind as she starts to fade back and brush your spine a bit when letting you go?
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! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! She was a place to go at 4am and I missed being there.
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I’m still waiting Each early morning I watch the minutes go And my back arches for her to scratch. The phantom presence only draws me further awake.
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March 2014
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