There were so many moments last night that I want to keep safe in the room I don’t have inside of me; they deserve a place in all of this confusion and hopelessness, all this exhausting chaos like the sound a person makes in the backseat when their appendix explodes, that makes me feel ancient and naive at the same time. How long did it take me to finally admit to this?
This morning it’s all poetry and memory, of the heat of your face next to mine as we lined up our bodies next to each other, our feet facing opposite directions. The breeze through the window kept us on the floor as you told me about your younger boyfriend, and over pear cider I was in love with certain things about you. The way you let me wear your boots, for example, and how you wrote down my shoe size and some of the things I said, as if they were things worth looking back on some day.
I’m sitting here writing this alone, listening to the complete demos of Tally Hall from the mix of 84 songs you made me, and the note you stuffed in my pocket is still there. You’re always giving me things, leaving behind anything that will trigger my memory of you, because you know that when we ask each other if we exist or not it’s sometimes a serious question, or that the reason why I write so frantically is to try and break this cycle of losing, or you can read it in my eyes when I talk about her, or maybe I told you, or maybe that’s just the type of person you are, I can barely remember..
This morning your grandfather died and you need to “take care of some business before the funeral, but I want to see you tomorrow,” you say. I order more coffee. Make arrangements to buy vodka, go to the gym, talk to boys, to make sure everything is flipped back to naive.
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