The night of, the morning after & the last time
The night of the accident, I can still feel your arm pressed against my body in an attempt to stop me from flying through the windshield of your car. In that moment, despite the evident danger that we had just escaped, I felt safe. I felt cared for. With all the commotion, cars driving past us, people stopping, police on their way, you had eyes only for me. Making sure I was safe, I was fine, did I need water? You would call someone to get me home, safe. You would call. Matter of fact, you would come to see me later, in person, should I need a hug or a kiss, you would provide. You did. The night of the accident, you became the first adult I ever dated. And, if anyone should ask, despite it all, I would still describe you as a wealth of Sundays.
The morning after, my head was stuck in the clouds. My feet had lifted, my spirit was intertwined with the divine; there was no coming down from this high. The night before you had carried me, placed me by your side, said “come here” as both an invitation and an order and I gave in. I gave all. The room turned with us, we made it spin. We lost our minds and we couldn’t not mind. You fell asleep, I rose to my feet and sat at the edge of the bed. Did you know that we can see the whole city from your bedroom window? The moon was so bright that night, its light was blinding. It was binding. I stood there, wearing your shirt, watching the moon. Your heart merely inches away from mine but I was already predicting our end, our downfall. I shook my head, wipe the tears from face and before falling back into your arms, I told myself: “I know this won’t last forever but will take what I can get from you.”
The last time I spoke to you, the call lasted a minute and 27 seconds. Long enough to exchange polite hellos and goodbyes, not nearly enough to tell you that I have been missing you for months. Not enough to tell you that I have been fighting the urge to call you “baby” every time I saw you. Not enough to tell you that I made a list of all the music and series and books I know would love and that I have never been able to press “send” because I was afraid. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, of having made it all up in my mind. Afraid I imagined it. Afraid it was all me, just me. Because you never called. You didn’t call. You made me feel alone. Six thousand miles will do that, I get it but I know that before I left, I begged you to consider the depth over the distance; how what we have was too rare and too pure to toss out the window. And I know you have bad dreams, I know you don’t let everyone see you, I know you never ask for help because your condition doesn’t allow you to be weak or to owe anyone but you owe me. You owe us. I am not asking you to change your mind. I am asking you to consider how six thousand miles and months apart brought us right back here.