down the path where stinging nettles grow I found a blue robin's nest

“the thing about grief is that it never truly leaves. from the moment it enters you, it becomes something you are always getting over.”—Hanif Abdurraqib

Wunderhorse’s Butterflies played from the speaker.

Moved back, scooted beside her.

Don’t you want a snack? asked it out the corner of my eye.

Yeah, but I shouldn’t, she said. I’m counting calories.

Her eyes glued to the tv on our left.

Raised a brow, held out my hand blocking the tv and said: Well, I’m getting the half of the Bahn Mi in the fridge.

Saw her eyes flash my way.

Well, if you get up. Bring me a protein bar, she said.

Sprang up to the door.

Sand-bar. Heard—said going out the room.

Hey, don’t talk smack on my snack! she said.

Sitting on bed crossed legged, only wearing: a large shirt (mine), black panties, a messy bun, her glasses and most important of all: her veil of patience.

Walking to the kitchen, going past the bathroom—saw blue on the periphery, but ignored it.

Bring me a soda water, too. Please, she yelled.

Pick something to watch, yelled back, holding the fridge open: soda water (blue), energy drinks (silver), cold brew (green), the leftover báhn mi, baby carrots, hummus… bless her heart.

Should probably start doing groceries.

Truffaut? she asked.

Nah, I was thinking something more current.

What? she asked raising her voice.

Can’t hear you (lies), wait ‘til I get back to the room.

Opened the freezer, got some ice cubes, popped them in a glass, grabbed the sammy and walked back to the room.

The blue curtain on the tub, coiled to the far right side of the wall where the shower head sprouted from.

You didn’t bring me the soda water? she asked. Her face looked like that of a librarian in a porn movie. Stunning, no production needed (unlike the porn).

Shit, I’ll go get it after I roll-up.

It’s ok, I’ll go get it myself.

Shifting her weight forward on her hands planted, digging into the mattress, the glasses slid centimeters down the bridge of her nose, her eyes, a double sun setting on the horizon of the framed glass.

Her cabochon Dravite les yeux mosquito’d me in their amber—No, I got you. Stay there, told her this setting down the glass with ice and went back for the blue can.

With a smile que derritió la era de hielo ruling inside me.

Walking past the bathroom—caught a woman in a blue dress standing in front of the mirror—What the fuck!

What? What happened? asked Mandy.

Opened the bathroom door all the way and—nothing. Curtain of the tub was drawn open as I left it.

Nothing, babe. Sorry, thought I saw something. It’s all good, I said.

Earlier this morning, her alarm had gone off.

She always wakes up before it. Today, she slept through it.

Assumed Mandy was exhausted. She’s been working doubles and taking classes.

Shook her like a pair of maracas, but nothing.

That’s when I flipped her over on her back and her response was a slight opening of the eyes with a low graveling hum.

Thanks, she said, handing her the blue can.

So, any picks yet? I asked.

I was thinking Valerie and Her Week of Wonders.

Czech New Wave, okay. I mean, it’s a good movie but I was thinking of something maybe neither of us have watched?

Have you seen Frances Ha?

Not really. Love Gerwig, tho’.

Really, but you’ve never watched Frances Ha? Okay, she said.

Okay, let’s watch that then—she went into my Criterion account, searched for it and—Let me go pee real quick and then we’ll press play, Mandy said, getting up, the shirt flailed enough to see a sideways eight cut in half. Enough for it to stir a ten in me. Cheeky.

Lookin’ hot, babe!

Mandy looked back halfway out the door—her stare dead as azaleas in winter—Thanks, babe, she said.

We went by the sea, saw it incessantly smash against the jutting black stone along the coast.

White spritz parting from each wave, only to return (in pieces) back to the source code.

Doesn’t this remind you a little of Purple Moon? asked her, trying to snap her out of the trance she seemed to be in.

I love Alain Delon. Such a talented actor and a gorgeous man, too, she said.

Okay, I didn’t ask if this reminded you of him, but thanks for participating, haha.

Seeing her there, to me, she was just as immense as the raging sea.

Not telling her that, to not sound corny, is something that still haunts me.

Next morning, heat glued to both, sheets drenched. Next to me: her composed face angled with sadness, her bone structure that of an eternal longing, cliffing under her window sills—a fraction of a blink was enough for me to see my life end before her.

Got up, looked at Mandy and said: Where do you want to go? It’s technically our last day here. Anything in mind?

Yes. Why don’t we go to that bookstore next to the bridge? she asked. From the window, warm light pooled in and drowned Mandy in a gemlike refraction glow.

Hanapepe? Okay, that’s quick. What do you want to do after?

I don’t know, babe. Let’s just enjoy our day. Be in the moment. We don’t need to have everything planned out. Besides, we already did everything we had planned. Let’s just go off-script on this one? Okay? I’m going to shower and get ready. Why don’t you go and get us something—you know what? Forget it. We can go to the café across the bookshop. Love you.

Our lips                                                   to be able to speak
               were just there to anchor us  
                                                                 tongue to tongue untangling time. 

Love you too, I said.

                                            blossomed out the lush canopy.
Flowers chirped as birds 
                                         

         butterfly
Blue                  bushes and their curved cupped petaled woody grubs, got pollinated by      bees.

So dazzling. Love it—Mandy pulled her phone and snapped a photo—blue and yellow.

After the bookstore we snacked at the café across street. We then went back and crossed the wooden bridge.

Stayed there until distant dying spheres of gas cluttered the night sky.

Any source of light suited Amanda, Mandy. My Mandy.

Mandy was my light source.

I loved it! said the woman. She sustained a smile braided in her gaze nailed at the man beside her. I don’t know what was it about it, but it was so exciting. Thank you, babe.

Both Amanda and Rham, moved through crowds joined in hands. Jubilant as Spring they basked in joy. Their bodies, baskets weaved with their traumas holding pearls inside, they were ready to share them with each other.

I’m going to be so bored, this next two weeks—said Rham. Turning to face Mandy, he sped by a few steps and said: Do your friends really need to do this whole reunion thing last for a whole two weeks?

Aw, you’re going to miss me?

Uhm, hello! I’m missing you already, can’t you tell? he said this and laughed. Laughed to paint over the pain behind that gray truth.

Tell Rham you’re tired, you don’t want to hear what he has to say.

It’s all lies anyway. Grab his books and rip the pages out. Throw them at him, full force. Ignore everything he says. Think about how everything is easier when you sleep, drifting in a sea whose tempest is ever present (looming), taking you to an island where you are safe. Away from anybody that can hurt you.

Wait, calm down. Don’t get carried away by anger, there’s other emotions under there that you should pay more attention to. Stop lashing out.

Get away from him.

I don’t want to go anywhere, but I really don’t want him here right now

Listen yourself. Ask him to give you some time.

Go to the back room, to his collection, grab that EH Taylor Single Barrel.

Pour yourself two ounces in the Glencairn glass.

That Blue Spot Cask Strength caught your attention. That’s your next pour.

Stop looking at the knife block.

Write in your journal.

Pour yourself in there.

Now that you’ve calmed down: write him a letter before you leave.

Take this two weeks to yourself, take your little blue bag of grief with you.

Leave the letter on his side of the bed.

You walk in. Everything is there—yet it feels empty. Look out the door—her shoes are gone.

When you go to the room, you see a letter on top of the bed. You don’t need to read it.

You ruin everything you touch. A true failure, and worse: a destroyer.

The one person who loved you the most (not even your mother), you betrayed.

We know you love her; we know you’re pathetic.

Riddle your mouth with smurfs. Their only 3mg so you’re going to need down to the last one in the bottle.

Swish them down with some Blue Spot, it’s right there next to a used Glencairn.

You’re now inside a void. Perhaps the void you’ve always had inside.

No point in getting out of it now. You’re safe there, and so is anyone you could ever love. All you have to do is disappear. Drift and scatter with the spritz of the wave clashing against the black rock and returning incomplete back to its original whole self.

The letter lay silent.¹²

1. To the blue-eyed boy with spirals in his hair, I don’t wish you ill.

Despite the road of wonder you paved for me, you threw me in your swirl of chaos.

Coded nicknames—inside nicknames—creative, silly ones that couldn’t be understood by outsiders.

Our own added commentary track to every movie. A sometimes adversarial AV Club that ended in cuddling. Little did I know then, that those were our own scenes, our own little moments straight from the directors chair.

My eyelids growing heavier and drifted off in the warmth of your chest luring me in.

It’s funny how the definition of home changes. Who you decide is home. I had no part in making that decision. Sometimes they find you. Sometimes they accept your oddities or even love them. Sometimes they attack them. It moves in extremes—a safe haven and a war zone. Now, a grave site or maybe a collapsed civilization or a lost city. My Atlantis. A fallen empire. A myth. Legendary. Destructive. A trojan horse in an empty stadium. Desolate. A loop of memories plays in rotation. Like Super8 film. Childhood innocence and trauma coming together. Sometimes they play in rewind. Sacred footage I keep to myself.

In you I found a teacher/sensei/drunken master.

You were golden-era 1970s cinema. Falling in love with you was the equivalent to Elliot’s bike flying in the air in ET.

In this metaphor I don’t know if I’m Elliot or a blanketed ET sitting in the basket.

Tears run down my face as I manically write this, yet I’m sound. Blowing my nose with every sentence. My heart crossed in grief’s blades. Hanif Abdurraqib has several quotes on grief, but I’ll just share this one: “The thing about grief is that it never truly leaves. From the moment it enters you, it becomes something you are always getting over.”

To the blue-eyed boy with spirals in his hair, you’ve left a glowing pearl in my hand.

2. Quoted block; In this metaphor I don’t know if I’m Elliot or a blanketed ET sitting in the basket, and To the blue-eyed boy with spirals in his hair, you’ve left a glowing pearl in my hand, are direct quotes from TR’s letter.