I fell asleep at 11 last night. After a 6 kilometre run and a quick dinner involving shrimp, pesto, and pork rinds, I barely had time to freshen myself up before I dove into the airbed facefirst, pajama askew, a with bit of my pink underwear poking out as if to say a greeting.
That was last night.
And today, of course, is a whole other story.
I woke up at 2 today, like clockwork, the same way I have woken up at 2 every single day for the past week. I don’t understand — I run myself weary as often as I can, and sometimes, I do laps in the condominium’s private pool. I do this every evening as a piss poor attempt to wake up the next day not because of your face haunting my dreams (I would say nightmares, but you’re too beautiful for that), but because the sun is peeping in to say hi.
Only that doesn’t happen, does it?
Every single day, I wake up at 2, hoping against hope that as I grapple for my glasses and open my phone, I’d see a message from you. An inside joke, a funny photo, a song lyric. A continuation of a promise made. But every single day, as I put my phone down and press my eyes together at 2:30, as I dream of the coulds and the shoulds, I am reminded that your messages are never going to come. And so I should stop waiting.
I told you once while we were in the middle of a verbal fistfight that I’m leaving before it’s too late to come back, before we couldn’t go back to where we used to be — what we could potentially become. Well, I guess I was a second too late to have uttered that, because it’s not like we’re anywhere right now, aren’t we?
—
Spring Break: I remember how you told me, after handling me that bottle of Sutter, that you noticed that I liked that wine so much the first time we were together that you made a personal vow: the next time we’d see each other, you’d give me another one.
I never told you this, but I fell asleep smiling that night. Not because you did give me another bottle (which I was never able to drink, since my greedy guy friends took hold of it before I could), but because you noticed. It’s not everyday that people do that.
It’s been more than a year, yet you keep noticing.
—
That, of course, was only one of the many things you’ve given me.
—
Sometimes I write about people — sometimes to reminisce, but mostly to forget. Usually, I have a clear idea of what I want to happen even before I pen my thoughts down. It’s like a sort of tradition; similar to the way we write peoples’ names or our personal demons or our wishes in paper and burn them — to commemorate or to forget.
Clearly, this time, I have no idea what to do with you.
Of perpetual finds 