Vidal's Verse

I am still haunted by memories and feelings that should have long ago passed. The problematic curse of an almost perfect memory. Do I remember the days perfectly or do I remember her as being perfect?

These are just stories told poetically. This is a place for my words to live. Some lead good lives and others not so much. I would call these Poetic Stories. 

You Can't Keep the Ocean in a Bottle

As his text message ring tone went off he could not help but to remember when she would text. He wondered how some of the girls texting him now would feel if they ever found out what went through his mind every time they texted him. How it made him think of her and reminded him of how his heart would jump with excitement and then stop with anticipation. Like a first time cliff diver running towards the nothingness, where the land beneath him would cease to be, heart and mind made entirely of excitement. And then as he got to the very edge, tips of his toes the only things still on the ground as the flats of his feet lifted to make that dive, he could see the ocean so far beneath him. That blind faith that nothingness would give way to beauty, if only he trusted it would, paying off. And time would grind to a stand still and he lived in a perfect moment, if only for a fraction of a second. He lived for her text messages, everything else was just filler. All other things a tick of the minute hand on a clock when you are bored enough to sit and watch it with anticipation. A movie a tick, a drive while listening to his favorite band another tick, going to work another tick. All spinning on an endless face that looped so it would go on forever. Then with a single ring his day would explode with life again, with all the excitement as it did the very first time he saw her. Hearing from her was a first time cliff diver every time. Nothing else mattered around him, friends and family no longer existed. His whole being transferred inside his phone where the ocean now resided. The anger he would feel when someone that was not her would text, it was palpable for those around him. As if by him looking at his phone and seeing it was not from her they had somehow stolen that joy, the joy of that perfect moment where he would look down and see the ocean. She was his ocean. The joy he felt when he went out on a limb and told her he lived for her texts and she said it was mutual, and how she also felt let down when she received a text not from him. And to hear her voice, or to be with her in person, can not even be explained. That, well that can only be described as heaven. Now every time he hears it ring he has to remember all those feelings. And now, well now it can only be described as hell, reliving that moment only to be let down. A beautiful day standing on top of a cliff, getting a running start towards the nothingness, lifting off at the edge with the sea breeze in his face. Then with dread, looking down, after it is too late to stop going full speed, seeing the dry sea bed below. Jagged rocks littering the spot where he will land. And with embarrassment and hurt looking out as he falls, noticing the ocean was still there. It just had retreated a little bit. And now with someone else playing in her waters. The ocean he knew full well wasn’t his to keep, but had hoped he was hers. If only she would be there again to catch him; Or at the very least if only he could stop jumping for her every time he heard his goddamn phone ring.

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