After that, there was me without you again. And then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then them, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him, and then him.
Now, it's me without him or you, and sometimes without myself. Thankfully, God never gifted me with the capacity to feel loneliness, so I don't ever feel isolated when it's me without you or him. I just sleep alone and read more and eat less and spread love around to the people who aren't too far away. I take work home with me and stay late at the office, occasionally stepping outside to smoke cigarettes and feel crowded by the stars. This isn't making do. This isn't trying to pass for busy. I'm not channeling anything. I just operate outside of us, now.
I still miss you, though. I miss the beginning; not the way-way back, but the time when it was the two of us. Before it was me without you for the first time. I miss the way I felt when you stood next to me in my parents' living room; you meeting mom and dad for the first time. We were in the place I grew up, with the people who raised and nurtured me from birth, but for some reason, standing only inches away from you while you talked to my mother about your dreams to one day own your own architecture firm, I felt like a piece of your mass. You didn't noticed, but I rocked back on my heels and let my shoulder blade graze your chest. You were so much bigger than me, and you made me feel small. But not insignificantly small; small in the way that I could live in your orbit and eventually collide with you. I remember wishing I could see us the way my mom saw us: your body framing mine with the light from the ceiling fan bouncing off of me and onto you and then the wall behind us. My shadow. My mountain.
And then there was the time we had sex on the floor of your townhouse. You'd just moved into the place and the furniture we'd picked out from Pier 1 was due for delivery the following morning. I was rushing to make a closing shift at Johnny Carino's and you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, tinkering with a glass vase in an attempt to turn it into a lamp. You drilled a hole into the base and fished a cord through it, while I watched you from the kitchen, brushing my teeth over the sink, as you switched it on and blinked at the the new glow. I loved you often, but I felt it profoundly in that moment. So I spat into the sink, rinsed out my my mouth, and went over to kiss you goodbye. I was wearing my uniform, a black button-down tucked into black chinos, and you were in loose-fitting gym shorts and a backwards cap. You'd forsaken a shirt. And when I bent down to kiss you, you grabbed me by the shoulders and shucked me down on top of you.
You were much stronger than me, and the best I could do when you were aggressive with me was to squirm and escape. Years of high school varsity wrestling had taught me how to kick ass and defend myself, but you were well out of my weight class, and I didn't have the upper body strength to muscle you into submission. So I usually just took your wrist and swept my legs around, pulling myself from under you and then I'd face you in a staggered stance, motioning for you to come and get me. Either that or I just let you win. In that instance on the floor of you townhouse, I let you win. My consolation prize was you. And I didn't care that my shift had started without me and that I'd have to re-style my hair before I left. I would remember this forever. Because it would never be as good as this ever again.
When you broke up with me, you were wearing a shirt the color of Merlot and it was somewhere around four in the evening on a Sunday. We didn't cry and we didn't make a lot of eye contact. I didn't accept your hug and let you leave with so much as a "fuck you." Then, I changed my outfit, met my friends for drinks and met someone else. He was everything you weren't: skinny, simple, present, unburdened, stupid, loving, modest, unobtrusive, innocent, and happy. I loved him very much, and after he moved away, we tried to make it work until I broke his heart like you broke mine, and a few days later, I received a letter in the mail with an engagement ring inside. You would've hated it. No diamonds or anything. But I loved it, and I let it break me down.
He was the first in a long list of your successors, but he was the only one to live in your wake. You don't haunt me like you used to, but sometimes I wish you would. I still scan pictures for your face and survey parking lots for your car. Your absence has made you more present than ever before.
And every now and then, I have to face that reality. I have to close my eyes and relive old memories. I have to allow myself to love you from afar. I have to write all this down, and be honest with my words, and hope you'll read it, and hope you'll miss me, and hope you'll show up. I have to take long drives, and pick out specific pieces of sky to focus on, and put all my dreams there. Maybe you've picked out the same patch. Maybe they can live there together; on a plane far and away from us.
Far and away from you and me.
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