Songs of the Lost

There is glue in my hair.

Not your common let's-get-high-in-6th-grade Elmer's glue. And not
that weird goes-on-purple-dries-clear glue either.

This is really adhesive, not glue anyway. Double sided and very
sticky. Dispensed from a transparent and pretty blue plastic, um,
dispenser?

The point is, my newly and so neat cut hair has something very sticky
and cumbersome in it.

I only wanted to make you a card.

First, an innocent "I'm happy we're friends card" but oh, oh then.
Then it became the "If I know love it's because of you" card. And now
looking at this mess of scrap-paper and glitter, ribbons, beads, and
brass, I know it has to be a "Good bye" card.

Because instead of saying the right and proper things, I want to feel
your warm, wet lips against mine just once more. What good is the
flare to my back if your hand isn't there to press into it? Where
will I laugh like I did in your arms? And hardest, worst: who will
know me, if not you?

Who will know me? (if not you!)

These are the feelings of fairytales and the songs of the lost.

And now, awash in tears and wishes and a trembling, aching heart, I
can't finish this. Not us, not this card, barely even this thought.

There are things wreaking such havoc on my young and hurtling self
that I can't begin to capture the start of them in these black lines
on this stark white page. Words falling faster than my torn and
hastily-hewn net can catch them!

So, the glue. The adhesive. In my hair. That's what we'll focus
on. That's what I'll think about.

Is there really no better name for the pretty blue plastic dispenser
than dispenser?

And what was I thinking, making you a card in the first place?