It's been a year. A passer-by on the INTERNET told me this place is empty and needed a little loving.
I agree.
Last I heard from you was a strange phone-call at an odd hour. Do you remember? I think you were at whatshisname's place. Your brain a butter-in-the-sun mess with some strange chemical that words were too thick to describe.
How are you?
I miss you.
I think of our friendship and smile. If anyone plotted the points, it really makes for a gorgeous story. I know I've told you this a million times, that you've changed so much, and so wonderfully. Like a bloom that caught the right amount of sun, and blossomed. Like a beast that draws itself to height, and opens its eyes.
Thinking of you fills me with a kind of heaviness. Of all the things I should've said all these years. Of all the things I don't have the words to say. Of the weight of the simplicity and guilelessness of us.
Looking back, maybe, at some time, I corrupted it, and you were the one upholding its intent. An unfortunate, unaware Jesus carrying a crucifix of no wrong you did.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not understanding this earlier, or better.
I'm especially sorry for all the times I have told you to come back - not geographically, but to being the person I was far, far more comfortable with. Far more in-tune with. Far less intimidated by. A person I could understand better.
A person who has left.
I think part of that weight I feel when I think of you, is that knowledge. That you are a person who has left. Not in the desertion understanding of the word. But a person who has outgrown his odd red Champ. A person who has outgrown my memory of him.
All this while when I said I miss you, I understand now, that I have meant it as missing this memory of you, because I do not fully understand this new version of you, or this version of me that stands startling, saddening, awkward in juxtaposition. Or simply beside it, hand-in-snug-hand.
But this is growing up. This is the passage of time. This is that yawning aisle.
I hope you're revolted and terrified, as I am, by the idea of being a shadow of us, because at some time, there was an us. I am sorry I am not the sort that will settle for our settling into expressing a bygone time with platitudes and the ghost of affection. Our time is not finished. Our work is not done.
I'm sorry I have been too un-moored to reach out, and be exactly the one thing we have always been for each other: One snug hand for another. Giver and taker of insult, pain, hurt, misunderstanding. Other half of a by-two. The perfect empty lungful for a cigarette that's too much to finish.
Here, and now, I will say this with renewed meaning:
I miss you.
I agree.
Last I heard from you was a strange phone-call at an odd hour. Do you remember? I think you were at whatshisname's place. Your brain a butter-in-the-sun mess with some strange chemical that words were too thick to describe.
How are you?
I miss you.
I think of our friendship and smile. If anyone plotted the points, it really makes for a gorgeous story. I know I've told you this a million times, that you've changed so much, and so wonderfully. Like a bloom that caught the right amount of sun, and blossomed. Like a beast that draws itself to height, and opens its eyes.
Thinking of you fills me with a kind of heaviness. Of all the things I should've said all these years. Of all the things I don't have the words to say. Of the weight of the simplicity and guilelessness of us.
Looking back, maybe, at some time, I corrupted it, and you were the one upholding its intent. An unfortunate, unaware Jesus carrying a crucifix of no wrong you did.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not understanding this earlier, or better.
I'm especially sorry for all the times I have told you to come back - not geographically, but to being the person I was far, far more comfortable with. Far more in-tune with. Far less intimidated by. A person I could understand better.
A person who has left.
I think part of that weight I feel when I think of you, is that knowledge. That you are a person who has left. Not in the desertion understanding of the word. But a person who has outgrown his odd red Champ. A person who has outgrown my memory of him.
All this while when I said I miss you, I understand now, that I have meant it as missing this memory of you, because I do not fully understand this new version of you, or this version of me that stands startling, saddening, awkward in juxtaposition. Or simply beside it, hand-in-snug-hand.
But this is growing up. This is the passage of time. This is that yawning aisle.
I hope you're revolted and terrified, as I am, by the idea of being a shadow of us, because at some time, there was an us. I am sorry I am not the sort that will settle for our settling into expressing a bygone time with platitudes and the ghost of affection. Our time is not finished. Our work is not done.
I'm sorry I have been too un-moored to reach out, and be exactly the one thing we have always been for each other: One snug hand for another. Giver and taker of insult, pain, hurt, misunderstanding. Other half of a by-two. The perfect empty lungful for a cigarette that's too much to finish.
Here, and now, I will say this with renewed meaning:
I miss you.
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