June 6th.

June 6th.
It all comes back to that.
The giddy anticipation that sizzled in my whole body.
The French fries couldn't make their way to my mouth that day.
My hands shook with tiny nerves and my eyes dropped low as I saw the fry slip my grip into the pool of ketchup.
I boxed the fries and drove home whispering say anythings to myself.
The innocent kind.
The kind you get when your cheeks turn pink when a boy hands you a note with a check yes or no box in fourth grade.
The kind you get when a semi-stranger calls you Manhattan instead of Brooklyn to make you giggle.
The kind you get when you bump noses on your first kiss and it's missing that sparkle but his lips still feel so right with yours.
The kind you get when rainbow glow sticks spell out the holiest question of your youth on the front yard.
The kind that makes you feel ripe like a fresh peach, with breathy joy, juicy and tart yet beautifully sweet.
Time rolls on like credits at the end of a shitty horror film making a cricket out of you with jumps and belly busting screams.
You're hungry so you scower the fridge and you find that nearly year old boxed up fries from June 6th.
And you push them to the back of fridge and let their soggy salted selves continue to rot because you can't bear to toss them away.
The miserable scent is easy enough to disguise.
You see, once you throw those away, the trashcan won't allow you to take them back.
It closes it's ends up and walks itself to a black hole of dirt and nothingness.
Suddenly that pool of ketchup turns into a pool of salty wet sparkles.
Tears, really.
Lying in your bed.
I wipe away the puddle on my cheek with your comforter thinking of how distant your kiss felt.
Like a punch to a pillow you entrusted your comfort to.
Our face to face contact a full map between.
I'm in Seattle and you're in Miami.
I'm in rain and you're in sun.
I'm in green and you're in blue.
I'm in hell and you're in life.
I'm in....thought.
On top of thought on top of realization on top of analysis on top of denial on top of rejection and I'm trying.
I'm trying to squeeze all 125 pounds of my weak, soulful being through your dog door because I crave the chance to get your attention in a new way.
I'm trying to scream even though God has exchanged my teeth for metal and my gums for rubber and my lips for glue and those don't work in the way flesh mechanically can.
I'm trying to march. I'm trying to make it until march. I'm trying to make it until next march and next April and next may and next June.
Next June 6th.
Just another June 6th.
Maybe then I can finally whisper instead of yell.
I can struggle to eat instead of force myself to.
I can run out of my door and jump in your arms saying yes instead of begging you to come pick me up.
But not everyday can be June 6th.
At some point you've got to ask yourself:
Have you got to open life's doors.
Dig deep down.
Grab the box.
And throw away the French fries
Or, can you make it another June 6th?