I have hung my dreams upon the crook of your little finger. Your gnarled mutant fingers that you must make an effort to bend. I am a scientist in the making; I see beauty in ‘most everything that is you. You edit and polish sentences, chopping off pieces that stick out to create the perfect product. My hair is a mess, it will never behave and stay put in a bun- tendrils will escape and wave about. My eyes will always be smeared with kohl, or exhaustion, or too much affection. Yours display equations from time to time- things that make sense. I spilled into your life one night drenched in rain and whiskey, my head buzzing in a cloud of smoke. Sometimes I startle you so much that you cannot make sense of me, of why I say or feel certain things. We are on different planes. I know this now, yet there is no resentment like I thought there would be. I am okay with this. The sudden clarity is stunning. What I want is a chance for us to bloom. It is hard to bloom when you are this far away- I know you’re right, I know distance is an insidious creature- but I choose to brush this thought aside and cloak it in cobwebs in some dusty corner of my mind. I will not think about it, and you will not think about it, and we will get through your beginning a new life, and me beginning mine. We have no shared history, we stole a few perfect moments and then I kissed you goodbye- “for now”, as you added. How much shared history can be constructed over the phone, over the Atlantic, over an email in your inbox from me?

You ask for a rain check, and I give it gladly- I find most things you do endearing. I would give you almost anything you asked for, I think. It is a madness, but I suppose I must have something to be mad about at any given point. I have never loved someone so much, you see.


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