v u l v a l i c i o u s
i travel backwards in time, but dream of going forward
I've time traveled two years backwards, when what I really want is to see the future. I want to walk through my house and live in the rooms for hours at a time.
Some succession of girls will have passed through by the time I'm there. Each one a little stronger than the last, each one reading a little more and giving a little more. I've been reduced to singing Joan Armatrading songs and wishing for all the things inside them.
Leaving is hard, and I don't know how to do it. I feel myself backing out of the room one step at a time, and I've taken so many last looks that the gesture is irrelevant. I keep doing this. I keep turning around and pushing myself back in. I can twist and cry, I can jerk away as if it's not what I want, but it's there anyway: I am asking for it.
I ask to see her again and again so that I can look underneath her eyes, press my hand into her rounded knee as I think about pressing myself into her heavy hand. I talk more and more with the ones I try to leave behind; I am begging them to come back to me, or at least to want to come back. I get hurt when they decline.
But the signals are mixed right now, they're clouds floating low over the park on a cold morning: indifferent, at first, then icy present, then fading away until the sun can slice through. I think of asking to trip over into her world in those moments, but something stops me.
I can't help but remember two years ago, sitting almost right here, almost on this very same bench, trying to leave and wanting to look back. Holding myself to keep from touching her hand.
I don't know how to move any way but backwards.