for kp

you wore jean shorts on a rainy tuesday in april

told me to meet you at our favorite bookstore

in coolidge corner —

i opened the door

and saw you standing by the coloring books —

your navy blue crewneck,

your curly q hair —

i felt about as rainy tuesday in april

as a person can possibly feel,

but i swore

you looked like

an early morning in june.

like a hello, sleepy mr. sun!

like a fresh journal page

a hot cup of coffee

a light summer breeze —

i know how badly you’ve missed boston

i know you feel most at home on city streets,

but to me —

to me

you are a front porch 500 miles from here.

you are a gently swinging chair.

you are the view of a garden

in a yard with no fences.

you are the place i didn’t know

i was running to.

i ran to you in the bookstore.

you wrapped me in a hug and said,

“hey. what a day.”

i didn’t tell you at the time,

but seeing you made me feel

ok

for the first time in so many days —

do you know how hard it is

to be the type of person

who makes people feel

ok?

you are the touch, the laugh, the breath

i didn’t know i needed.

i haven’t seen you since december

and the last few months have felt like

a never ending february.

i fucking hate february.

i hate depression.

i hate cancer.

the only thing I have loved

about these past few months

has been

going to the bookstore with you

on this rainy tuesday in april —

has been not reading tolstoy

and pretending to read the bible

and buying a corny ass necklace

that says

keep going

i love how we kept going.

out the door, down the road,

how we ended up at the ice cream shop.

i ordered a scoop of

peanut butter cookies ‘n cream

in a sugar cone.

you ordered

some weird sweet cream-espresso-affogato

you are so weird.

i turned around

and caught you doing jazz steps

in line with a coffee ice cream concoction

in your hand —

you laughed, and ate a spoonful, and said,

“hey, man, sometimes you just gotta dance.”

you make me feel like dancing

on days when i cannot hear the music

over the pitter patter of raindrops

like a rooftop beat box —

you make me feel like boxing.

like punching life in the belly

for being such an asshole

sometimes.

you make me remember

that the key word in that sentence is

sometimes.

that we are not victims

(even though we are sort of victims).

that there will be a day

that doesn’t feel

like a rainy tuesday in april.

that there will be a day

when we are both

ok.

i don’t know when that day will be, but

promise me

you’ll meet me at our favorite bookstore in coolidge corner.

promise me

you’ll wait for me by the coloring books.

promise me

i’ll open the door

and find you dancing

in your favorite pair of jean shorts.

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