New Poem!

I wrote this in college and it was published in a collection of poems written by students.  It is over ten years old, but I still love it and I feel as though I could have written it yesterday.  I did do a few revisions.  I hope you'll like it.

There in his Room

By: Leslie Li Hikida

He mumbles as he leaves the bedroom

and I lose him somewhere between

hallway and kitchen. 

I take a drag from the cigarette I’m holding,

wondering what he’s just said under such

measured breaths.

Perhaps he’s said he adores me,

that I make him happy,

and that he hates to see me go.

Or perhaps he’s said he detests me,

that he can’t wait for me to leave,

and that he wishes I were anywhere but here.

Either way, for the moment I am content,

there in his room, with he in the kitchen,

and I on my back.

[Yet another] New Blog!!

I'm now busy making these...

...and I've started a blog for them!  www.littlehibachi.blogspot.com  Check it out!

Sugar for Freedom

Sugar for Freedom

By: Leslie Li Hikida

            “I didn’t love you.  I know that now.”

            “Then why did you say you did?”

            Danielle looked up from the cup of coffee she held in her hands.  She gazed into Mike’s green eyes for the answer, but nothing came.  Her mind was as lucid as it had been the day she told him it was over.  She knew better than to say that though.  Mike was a man who often required more of more. 

            “I guess in some selfish way I thought saying it would make you love me more,” she admitted not fully thinking her answer through.  She lifted her gaze to a red painting on the wall.  She felt safer staring there because the painting could not judge her the way Mike’s eyes always did.

            “You were right.  It made me love you an infinitesimal amount more.”

            “And I needed that.  Can’t you see?”

            “And you think I didn’t need love?” he asked, visibly hurt by her words.

            “No, of course not, and that is why I told you in the end.  I wanted you to know that I was not in love with you and that I was sorry for it...for all of it.”

            Mike’s eyebrows knitted in a painful way, pleading more than asking, “Don’t you feel guilty?  For how long you let it go on for, the charade that we were a couple in love?”

            “Honestly?” she asked suddenly meeting his eyes again.  “No, I don’t.  I know that I probably should, but I don’t.”

            He wasn’t satisfied.  He wouldn’t be satisfied until she told him that she was dirt and he was everything.  He needed to know that she had been on the brink of suicide just as he had been the day they broke up. 

            “Well, you should, Dani,” he said point blank.  “You lied.”

            “It wasn’t intentional, Mike.  I did the best I could.”

            The calm in her voice was making him crazy inside.  Just for once he wanted her to get angry, show some emotion, throw something, do anything that would show that she felt as strongly about the situation as he did.

            “I still think you’re wrong,” he said. 

            Danielle was getting tired and felt as though they were competing in a race.  It was like every time she thought they were nearing the finish line she would look up and see someone holding up a sign announcing that they still had one more lap to go.  Running in this same circular track was wearing her out.  She needed it to be over.

            “Do you at least think about me?” he asked.

            Danielle smiled for the first time and answered, “You know I do.  Everything reminds me of you, Mike.”

            He looked away.  “But it’s different now, isn’t it?”

            “It is.”  Danielle took in the last bit of coffee in her cup and delighted in the rush of sugar that had settled at the bottom of the ceramic mug.

            The sudden sweetness symbolized the freedom and independence she felt living her life without Mike.  Sugar normally dissolves in coffee and yet somehow this time it did not.  It had withstood the heat and bitterness of everything submerging it to greet her at the end of this long and drawn out conversation.

            “I guess I should go,” said Mike and then he waited for her protest.

            “Yes,” she said because she wasn’t going to play this little game anymore.

            As he stood up, Danielle closed her soft brown eyes.  She wanted to remember this moment, the moment when she finally let him go.  As Danielle walked across the parking lot to her car, it started to snow.  She looked up and watched it fall all around, each snowflake reflecting sweet, tiny grains of sugar.  

Tragic Beauty

By: Leslie Li Hikida

You and I are just the same. 

Living in a world we wish would change. 

Reaching out our hands to touch the ground

when sharp, cold metal is all we’ve found.

We are treasured by those who can see it

and invisible to those who will never be it. 

Trying to speak as our words get lost

and all that is left in our hearts is frost. 

We know we’re beautiful within and without. 

Wouldn’t it be tragic if no one ever found out?

Drawing Conclusions

By: Leslie Li Hikida

            The clouds pulled back to wash warm sunlight over Megan’s face.  Her cheeks blushed and she felt some familiar heat, the heat she used to feel when Jeremy would look into her eyes, back when she was still welcome in his arms.  It would erase any worries and all her uncertainties could be lost, but now that he was gone – no – now that he had left, this brief moment of sunlit heat was all she had left to remind her.

            The breeze picked up and felt like Jeremy’s fingertips along her spine reminding her of the times when he would let her know of his presence by running a finger down her back.  It sent chills through her and she tried hard to remember that it was her goal now to forget everything about Jeremy.

            Megan looked up from the crack in the sidewalk she had been staring at and something caught her eye.  It was a little boy smiling.  His smile reached through her heart right to her center where the memory of the beginning of her and Jeremy’s relationship lived, back when they were still so innocent and untouched by hurt and sorrow.

            The little boy saw how solemn she looked and turned to run away.  Megan was anything but surprised.  She was used to these kind of quick, abrupt exits from her life.  She sat, fighting so hard to keep all of her thoughts away that she didn’t realize the clouds had covered the sun again and everything was now cast in a blue hue.  A tiny raindrop hit the sidewalk beside her feet, then one on her leg, then another on her arm, her face.  They represented the tears she had shed.  Every one was a prayer and a hope that he would come back and equally a fear that he would not.  It had been so long and even so, these memories were so vivid and real Megan wondered if she could reach out and touch them.

            Megan stood up and swore on every cloud in the stormy sky, on every jagged and sharpened edge of her broken heart that she was better than this.  Yes, maybe Jeremy was gone, but she was still here and that had to mean something.  The tablecloth had been pulled out from their table so swiftly that all the dishes were now shattered on the floor.  She would have to pick up every last piece, one by one.  She must clean up the mess he had made and show him – no – show herself that she did not need his gaze, his touch, any of these fallen tears.  She would fit the fragments back together and save them in her pockets for someone who deserved them, for someone who could give her the same in return.  Jeremy wasn’t the only one who would love her.

Happy Monday!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

By: Leslie Li Hikida

            Sandy sat on the couch diligently trying to split up the DVD collection she and Paul had acquired over the last fourteen years of their relationship.  There are so many she has to strain to remember whether it was she wanted to have “Memento” and then laughed at the irony of that thought.

            The back door suddenly opened and Paul came in.  He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter, loudly disrupting the task she was trying to accomplish.

            Sandy looked up and asked, “Do you want ‘Memento’ as you know...a memento?”

            “Are you really doing this right now?” he asked, visibly uneasy about the situation.

            “Yeah, I am actually.  My mom is coming to help me move tomorrow and I want her to see that we’re at least making some progress.”

            Paul nodded sullenly and paced back and forth for a minute.  Suddenly he turned to her and said, “But do have to do that right...now?  I mean, she’s coming tomorrow and it’s only 3:30 in the afternoon.  Can’t we talk about splitting up stuff...later?”

            Sandy’s eyes started to well up with tears.  “No, we can’t wait any more,” she said quietly.  “I know it hurts you, but we have to.”

            Paul turned toward the wall silently thinking, plotting, and planning.  Sandy went back to sorting the DVD’s in two piles.

            She held up “The Notebook” and said, “This one, I know, is mine.”

            At that, Paul pounded the wall in frustration.  “Damn it, I don’t want to do this, Sandy,” he said.

            She put “The Notebook” on top of her pile and stood up.  “Well, what do you want to do then?” she asked.

            As she comes closer to him their eyes meet and the hurt is apparent between the two of them.  A tear has already started to fall from her eye.

            “Hey,” he said softly, always hating to see her cry, “do you think that maybe instead of all this good-bye stuff, maybe we could maybe say hello...again?”

            Between sobs, all Sandy could say was, “What?”

            He placed a hand on each of her shoulders.  “You know say hello for the first time again...like the first day we met.”

            “You’re crazy.”

            He took her by the hand and led her to the kitchen.  He sat her down at the kitchen table and grabbed a notepad by the telephone.  As he handed her the notebook he pulled a pen from the mug full of pens, then handed her that too.

            “You were at Epic Café on Coldwater,” he said.  “You were sitting outside on the patio writing furiously.”  She looked at him completely confused until he gestured for her to start writing.  “You were writing furiously,” he repeated, but she sat stiff as a board.  “Come on, Sandy, please.”

            As much he couldn’t stand to see her cry, Sandy could not stand to see Paul beg and so she snapped to attention and started to write on the yellow legal notepad in front of her.  He looked over her shoulder to see she’d written, “This is stupid.”

            “Then what?” she asked.

            Paul thought for a moment and then snapping his fingers, he said, “Then I came up and I was---.”  He dumped the mug full of pens on the counter.  “I was holding a hot cup of coffee.  I remember the steam because it was an unseasonably cold day in April.  Do you remember the steam, Sandy?”  Without realizing it, Sandy started to nod that she remembered.  “Good,” he said.  “And then I said---.”

            “’Hello!’” Sandy chimed in.  “The patio was packed with people and you asked me, ‘Is anyone sitting here?’”

            “And what did you say?”

            “I said, ‘No, I’m alone---.’”

            “Thank God!  And then I said---.’”

            “’Aren’t we all?’” Sandy recalled, finishing Paul’s sentence for him.  They were both getting excited.  “What happened next?”

            Paul took the seat across from her at the table.  “Then I sat with you,” he said.  “I asked you what you were writing and you said---.”

            “’The greatest story never told.’”  Sandy laughed.  “Then what?”

            Paul tilted his head back pretending to drink the rest of his invisible coffee before he slammed it down on the table.  Without saying a word he took her by the hand and led her back into the living room.  He pushed the DVD’s she had separated off the couch and sat her down.

            “Then I took you to a movie,” Paul said, taking a seat next to her. 

            “Yeah, that horrible Evil Dead movie.”

            “Right and I covered your eyes to protect you from the scenes I thought could give you nightmares.”

            “But I got them anyway,” Sandy replied.

            “Hey, at least I tried.”

            She decided to cut him some slack.  “Okay, and then what?”

            “Don’t you remember?” he asked, arching his eyebrows.

            It is clear she does not remember and so he again took her hand and led her to the bedroom.  She lightly pushed her so that she lay on her back, her legs dangling off the edge.  He lay beside her and said, “Then I charmed the pants off of you.”  He tugs at the belt loops on her jeans.  “Quite literally, I’m afraid.”

            Sandy nodded as all the memories of that night and the last fourteen years come back into her mind.  “Then what?” she asked already knowing all that came after.

            “Then we fell in love and it was easy, Sandy.  It was too easy.”  He wiped a tear from her face.  “And then we moved in together and we lived here in this house for fourteen years through earthquakes, through nightly helicopter traffic, through company downsizing, through two pets and through...”

            “Three miscarriages,” she said, finishing the sentence she knew he wasn’t able to.

            He shut his eyes tightly, letting his tears fall freely while nodding, “Yes.”

            Sandy got up off the bed and left him lying there. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Paul,” she said.

She went back to the living room.  She knelt before the couch and started to split up their DVD’s again.

I couldn't sleep, so I wrote.

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” 
― Saul Bellow

Ever Been in Love

By: Leslie Li Hikida

            “Have you ever been in love?” he asks.

            I laugh at this because not too long ago my answer would have been yes, but right now I’m tongue-tied. 

“It’s funny how clear things can seem when you’re intoxicated with the affections of another,” I say coyly. 

“No stalling.  You picked ‘Truth’, so answer the question,” he prods.

I think this is silly.  “Well, have you ever been in love?” I ask.

“Of course I have,” he replies too easily for my taste.  “Just once though.”

“Oh,” I say, then pause.  “Is that all?”  He nods.  “What was her name?”

“I can’t remember, but---.”

“Wait a minute, you were in love with her, but you can’t remember her name?”

“She and I were not together for very long, only a couple days, in fact,” he says. 

Normally I would not buy into this, but something about his European accent, the way every sentence he says sounds a little bit like a question makes me believe he’s telling truth.  I decide to go along with it.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Don’t laugh, okay?”

I hold up two fingers saying, “Scout’s Honour.”

“I was only sixteen and she was, I think nineteen or twenty.”  He stops talking until I can regain my composure.  “I was on vacation with my parents in London and she was the room attendant at our hotel.”

“Saucy!” I say despite my best efforts to behave.

“Nevermind, we can talk about something else,” he replies, his cheeks turning red.

“No, that was it.  I promise.  Please...go on.”

He takes a deep breath.  “We had passed by each other in the lobby and in the hall many different times and every time she smiled at me.  That’s what I remember most about her.  That, and her eyes, they were this absolute royal blue.

“Three nights before we were going to go back home I finally got up the nerve to talk to her.  My parents had left me at the hotel while they went to some play or opera.  I got fed up with the TV in the room and went out to get some air.  It was crisp and cool out, I remember that the hair on the back of my neck stood up as soon as I stepped outside.  The street our hotel was on was quiet except for the occasional automobile.

“After I had been out there for a little bit, I saw her exiting the hotel.  She was holding a cigarette in one hand while searching in her purse with the other.  Without warning she asked, ‘Do you have a lighter?’”

“Wait,” I interrupt.  “I thought you said you got up the nerve to talk to her.”

“I did!” he replies in self-defense.  “I could have very easily jumped like a mouse and run back inside, which was my first instinct.”  We both laugh.  “Anyway, after what felt like an awkward silence that lasted for an eternity I told her, ‘Sorry, but I don’t smoke.’ 

“She frowned in a way that made me want to gather up all the of fire in all of the world and give it to her just so long as she never had to frown again.  She started to put the cigarette back in its pack and said, ‘Good.  Don’t ever start.  It’s a terrible habit.’  ‘How come you do it then?’ I asked her.  She giggled and I fell for her even harder.  ‘I don’t know why,’ she said.  ‘I guess it relaxes me.’  She told me she would be off at 11:30 and wanted me to come back to the front steps and meet her.”

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask him, suddenly standing up from the sofa.

“Please,” he replies, un-phased.  “Coffee?”

“Sure,” I say and head for the kitchen.  “Pick something for us to watch while I’m in here.”

He doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t matter.  I have a feeling this little story of his will be going on quite a while.  Why did he even bring it up?  It’s only our second date.  I mean, he was with that girl for only a few days and he knows without a doubt that he was in love with her.  Meanwhile, I was with Brandon for two years and I can’t even answer that question in my own head...not anymore anyway.

I press the start button on the coffee maker.  I mean, I guess I was in love or why else would I have stayed for so long?  It definitely wasn’t because we had tons to talk about.  The silence between us in the car and at dinners could have filled the Rose Bowl Stadium. 

Then again, if I was in love with him, why was I in such a hurry the last few months of our relationship to get the hell out of it?  Bradnon was charismatic and charming, sure.  He was also so rational about everything from how to deal with disagreements to what movie we should see.  And at first I thought that was great, I thought what a gentleman he was, but then after a while, well, it got kind of...boring.  That’s when I knew it had to end.

“Do you need any help in there?” he asks from the living room.

“No,” I say, seeing the coffee is done.  “I’ll be right out.”

He doesn’t notice I’ve re-entered the room until I place the tray with our cups of coffee and some cookies I found in the cupboard that I’m praying haven’t gone stale.  He lifts his head from the back of the sofa and smiles.

“I love the smell of coffee,” he says.

We both take a mug and put in some cream and sugar.

“Did you pick something for us to watch?” I ask.

“Yes, but I wanted to finish telling you my story first.”

I nod, “Oh, of course.  You were saying she wanted you to meet her after her shift at the hotel.”

“Ah, yes.  I waited until my parents had fallen asleep and went back down to the front entrance of the hotel.  I waited there for half an hour and when she still wasn’t there after forty minutes I laughed at myself.  I mean, I was just a kid, what would a beautiful woman like her want with me?  So, I decided to go for a walk.  And that’s when I heard her voice.

“’I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘They never let me go on time.’  I turned around and by the way the light from the hotel was hitting her fair skin, I could have sworn she was an angel.  I told her it was okay and that she was worth the wait.  She said, ‘We’ll see about that.’  I can still remember the mischievous look in her blue eyes when she said that.  It drove me crazy.

“So, she took my hand and we walked and walked until we came to an open grassy field.  She took me out to the middle of it and from there we looked up and could see nothing but stars upon stars in the sky.”

I suddenly have to interject, “And let me guess.  That’s when you made passionate love for the first time.”

He laughs and shakes his head.  “No, no, no.  I know it must be hard to picture, but I was a shy little boy then.  Nothing like the rugged, handsome man you see now.”  Again, we laugh at his little joke.  “We just sat and talked,” he says.  “I could have listened to her voice forever.  I will say that we kissed that night when she walked me back to the hotel.  It was the sweetest kiss I think I’ve ever received.  So little was said, but so much was revealed.”

He stops to take a sip of his coffee.  I don’t know how much more of this story I can take.  Brandon would have hated it.  He would have said it was too sappy and that when it came to love, some things are better left unsaid.  I find myself agreeing and disagreeing with him at the same time.

“Shall I go on?” he asks, as if sensing my discomfort.

“Oh, yes, please,” I lie.

“The next morning, my parents woke me up.  They told me something had happened and we would have to return home a day early.  As soon as I had my suitcase packed I was running up and down the halls, searching for her.  I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.

“We stood in the lobby as my father checked us out of our room.  I scanned every corner praying I would see her royal blue eyes one last time.  My heart sank as I picked up my suitcase to follow them out.  That’s when I felt someone grab my arm.  I turned and there she was.  I told her I was worried I wasn’t going to see her before we left.  She threw her arms around me and said, ‘Thank you.’  ‘For what?’ I asked.  She said that since we met she decided to quit smoking.  Despite my parents watching us, I kissed her once more.

“It was then that I learned what love was.  Up until that point I thought love was what we see in the movies, but it has nothing to do with rose petals or perfume.  What it is is truth.  I’ll never know if she smoked another cigarette, but I don’t have to.  For that moment I loved her and that was enough to make her want to be a better person.  In improving her, I improved myself.”  He paused.  “You’re a million miles away, my dear.”

“What?” I ask, looking at him again.

“So, that is my ‘Truth’.  Now it is your turn to tell me yours.  Shall I ask you the question again?”

I look down at the empty coffee mug in my hand.  After hearing his story and how resolute he was in his explanation I say, “No, I have my answer.”  

Why am I not a songwriter?

So, as I'm going through my archive of old writing I am finding some poems that are pretty good that I know I intended to be songs.  I can definitely see my influences in them from Ani DiFranco to Garbage to Tori Amos to Nine Inch Nails, etc.  And I'm thinking of this for my book title: You + Me: A Collection of Short Stories, Poems, and Songs Without Melody.  Take a look at this next little sample!

Through it All

By: Leslie Li Hikida

Put you on the scale to see if the good outweighed the bad.

The heads didn’t match the tails and I knew that I’d been had.

And the room don’t change unless you move something first.

And you can’t deny the pain when it’s you who’s being hurt.

Hot ash burned my skin before I could blink.

And your charm’s fading fast, like you’re running out of ink.

And I’m running out of words to define what we are.

It’s like trying to pave a road when you’re flat out of tar.

You never should have messed with me.  You should have stayed home.

Now that you’re dismissed looks like you’ll be walking home alone.

You expect every time for my  body to break your fall.

You think my heart will stop, but, baby, I’ve been through it all.

Up a Mountain

By: Leslie Li Hikida

I love driving up a mountain to clear my head.

It helps me to see where my paths have led.

It is tricky if I go farther up than I meant to.

But then I find my way back and I know what to do.

Gettin' busy with it!

Hey there!  So, I'm FINALLY getting to serious work on my collection of short stories and poems that I intend to self-publish on Amazon this year and I am SO excited!  Here's a little taste of what to expect.  There will be more to come!

No Patience This Time

By: Leslie Li Hikida

            Writing makes people nervous.  I am constantly writing during class, writing stories, writing songs, basically, writing bullshit.  After a while, inevitably, someone will ask, “What are you always writing about in your notebook?” like they actually care when in reality what they really want to ask is, “Are you writing about me?”

Krissy sits next to me in English 101.  She’s a Christian goody-goody and every time I see her I am astounded at the variety of Jesus shirts there are manufactured in the world.  We’ve really only spoken once and that was for her to ask me if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.  I think it’s so cute when someone thinks they can save me.

I could be writing about her, but I’m not.  I am trying to figure something out because it seems I am always trying to figure something out.  The trouble with me is I never do.  I analyze, dissect, and pick apart every word spoken, every action offered until I am left with one huge question mark.  If I could see it, it would look like a slippery black snake, its forked tongue exposed to form the dot at the bottom.

Andy sits behind me in Calculus 280.  He looks like a walk in unchartered territory, a quick jaunt around the wild side.  And I have to admit I am tempted.

Okay, so at this moment I am writing about him.  It’s unavoidable, his offer too good not to abuse.  The thing is he told me I was different and I fell for him.  I jumped through flaming hoops suspended from the ceiling and, yes, I got burned. 

            My heart hurts.

            My brain hurts.

            Damn, do my thighs hurt.

            I should have known better.  Stupid.

                                                           Stupid.

                                                           Stupid.

            LOVE is dangerous territory because in my experience this is the natural progression of things:

            “I love you.”

            “I liked you.”

            And then soon enough it’s, “I hate you.”

            Usually after that it’s all, “I miss you,” and junk.

            MISSING someone seems to be the only thing I can fully commit to these days.  It fills every vein in my body, every cell, every particle of who I am.  I want you back (see: MISSING).  My life is shit without you (see: LOVE).

            Ethan’s a boy I started dating from work and I use the term “boy” loosely.  With him I see companionship.  I see stability.  I see...uh oh.  Maybe it’s time to slow things down and put things in perspective.  I feel it’s time to write about another hundred pages during Chemistry 86 in order to coax someone into asking me what it is I’m always writing about.  I’ll have no more patience this time.

            I’ll simply put down my pen and say, “You.  I am writing about you, okay?  Now, will you please just leave me alone?”