You suggested I write about things I don’t remember. I will. But first what I do remember.
The instant connection between us. How easy it was to talk to you. How in sync we were. How everything we said to each other would just branch off into a million more conversations that we wanted to have. That we literally messaged each other nonstop all day long, for several days straight. And it wasn’t just that you magically understood me, maybe because we were experiencing similar losses. It was that you genuinely sought to understand me.
I remember seeing you on that street in Brooklyn, touching you for the first time. I remember the thigh-highs you wore. The cigarettes you smoked. Our first kiss. How great it felt to wake up next to you. To desire you so strongly. And to nap with you on the couch.
Your ability to cut through bullshit. How much smarter you were than me about work, and about people.
How surreal Central Park was. Having a panic attack at some place calling itself the King of Cannolis in the tiny shell of a tourist trap of what is left of Little Italy.
I remember ruining everything. My anxiety preventing me from being fully present for these moments I’d waited for and looked forward to.
Ruining things before they even started when you returned to New York a few months later. Why you kept talking to me, I don’t know. Being so sick that it hurt my ribs to breathe … maybe a fitting parallel to my tortured navigation between trying to hold on to what I had invested so much into keeping, and being open to this person and experience I didn’t have a concept of even deserving.
I remember a lot more but am falling asleep.
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