I got a shitty phone call this morning and then made the situation worse. details don’t matter. what matters is that you aren’t here. you aren’t here to say ‘sons of bitches!’ and pour me a drink. you aren’t here to tell me about something completely unrelated and distracting and fascinating. you aren’t here to smoke those clove cigarettes I remember in my backyard and convince me that the best thing to do is drunken yoga in the grass like we did at the teahouse that night after I broke up with my fiance and we were out with those two men who thought we were beautiful and fierce and and dangerous. they wanted to kiss us. they wanted more.
sorry. memories. once I start missing you, I can’t stop. I can’t forget hashbrowns at midnight when we were both up late working. I can’t forget the free kittens we spontaneously picked up that day from the cardboard box on that porch near campus. I can’t forget your green hoodie, the different colors you dyed your hair. I can’t forget your wisdom, your naked honesty, your unending support. I had never met anyone like you before, and I don’t know that I ever will again.
god, that year. that was the best year. baking for boys and drinking all of that crazy cheap walmart rose and eating pico on the sidewalk until we stunk of garlic and cilantro and lime.
I hope that your life is fucking amazing. I hope that you dance until you can’t stand up any more. I hope that people respect and appreciate you the way you deserve. I hope that your spring is gorgeous and overwhelming. I hope that one day you decide to get back in touch.
love to you, friend.