I stood outside your door and listened to the way you played guitar.
I thought you were beautiful.
I can still remember the way you walked towards me that first day. It would’ve been a couple of hours before the sun would start sinking. It was disappointing. Our friendship was graceful.
The bulletin board on your door. I wrote notes I’m not sure you ever read.
You send me messages now asking how I’ve been, if I’m saving to head East.
Loving you was a sinking ship. A shot at the moon without the appropriate gear. I lost my footing. I forgot to breathe. I see that mall and I feel the plastic of the lid against my lips. We used to drink coffee together. We used to sift through racks. I used to model hats. You were always Catcher.
People like to comment on the power of time, like they have anything significant to say. Give it a month or two. Give it a year. It’s been close to three. If time is infinite, I’m caught in the period between loving and losing. Ad infinitum. Let’s learn a new language. Let’s eat burgers and comment on the hopeless wonder of the world.
Can we make a difference?
I will send you a story or two. Maybe type a letter on that typewriter once I purchase new ribbons of ink. You’re perilous.
I’ll tell you the names of my lovers. Their fingers never matched your eyes.
It was relentless. This love, I mean.