How are you?

Sorry I’ve been awol


I’m good. It’s good to hear from you, although you had just begun to slip away from the forefront of my worrying mind, to become a vague ghost of an idea. Next step, a dream. And like a character in a dream, you are not really you in my mind; you are everything I project onto you. From the faint silhouette of a memory, to the possibility of the kind of unreal romance that cures depression and makes everything okay, forever. Sometimes I want to diagnose these feelings as a failing in myself, a symptom of an illness. Sometimes I want to believe that maybe they mean something! Maybe my story is trying to bend its way back to the city, or even simply back to you, somewhere, anywhere. Or away from its current situation, which is, objectively, a tropical paradise of comfort and love. How could I consider wanting anything different? What is it that I can’t accept about paradise? Only the paradise of fantasy is desirable.

Your words are a drug, a reward made even more alluring by their brevity and infrequency. The less you say, the less often you write, the more you occupy my thoughts. Your silence enables me to write entire novels of our romance in my fantasies. I don’t stand a chance of being cured unless you open up, tell me everything, even if that means admitting that there’s not much to tell. Tell me you have a girlfriend, you’re engaged, you don’t want to talk to me, you have no time for long-distance friendships. Or tell me you’re considering moving out here. Or try to convince me to move somewhere else with you. Or even tell me that you’d love to have a pen pal, and write expansive emails about your daily life, with no reference to a possible future in the same physical place as me. Anything, please.

A ghost, I’m attracted to a nothing. An absence, a hole. Asshole.

Each tiny message like the penetrating eye contact made from far away, across a hall, going through a door to somewhere else. A whisper, in passing, through crowds. One compliment sends me soaring. If we were to fuck again, it would be more than that first time, quiet in your studio under fluorescent lights, barely breathing, unable to breathe. More than the bed in my loft apartment, in pale blue morning, sweat and laughter. More than the rooftop stairs to the purplish orange of the urban night sky, leaning and looking down at skyscrapers and cars on hills like slow neon rain, you behind me and the stars and lights exploding. It would be too much, because I haven’t had a drop since, not from you I mean, and even the slightest touch would send vibrations through my body and blood to my cheeks. If we came together now, we’d travel back in time to our selves of seven years ago, and it would be completely new.

Through ideas of you I construct a story built on wishes that will never come true. The real world pales in comparison. 

But maybe if I chase you in a circle, you’ll wind up chasing me. I’ll let you catch me then, and we’ll crash into a bed of never-ending. We’ll lick the salt from our wounds and fuck until we can’t tell the daydreams from the day, until the blizzard of Now wipes our memories clean and all we see is snow. Falling, never landing, forever.

Anyway, how are things with you?





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