I Wrote About You
The nerves of what’s not said over and over between unanswered texts and unsolicited social feed visits.
“This account is private”
I walk silently through the cobbled streets of SoHo looking solemnly at the cast iron facades of century old lofts gleaming in the golden hour of 5 or 6 o’clock. A buzz, a ping, a mention, a ring; your phone pulses with the world I never see.
I walk to the river, stare at the water, watch a boat float into Liberty. Walk to the office, every morning, sit in beige, type away. I’m useful when I’m useful, I’m nervous when I’m not. 9 o’clock iced coffee, 3 o’clock iced coffee. $7 out of the account I track so obsessively.
A man slams a curtain rod over a trash can and threatens to kill me with it by bashing it over my head. I look the man in the eyes, he doesn’t move. He only waves the bent trash rod all around.
Wonder why sitting silently in the country with a coffee and book seems like some kind of failure compared to this.
I Remember how your hair fell over the pillow and blanket in the fall sun in 2010. Bathed with clean fresh light every Saturday as we walked to the small coffee shop and sat and read the paper.
You would comment on the fullness of the fall trees and your desire to move to the mountains or Europe or somewhere else I brushed off as impractical and irresponsible. Your slender arms pink red from a too pale skin’s day in the sun. I looked at your brown curly hair falling down your back as I walked a few steps behind you, slow to keep up with more wishful hearts, mine coated with the plaque of a lifetime of beating too fast.
Gravel alleyways and college town cars parked jaggedly. Your expectations so low that only my presence was enough. You enjoyed the sun, the breeze, the day; you enjoyed me, I was never in the moment, only anxiously awaiting whatever was next.
We used to lay in bed wide awake until very early in the morning talking about the lives we could build together, where we would love to travel, what we had always wanted to try to cook or read or make. I used to make plans. I used to stare at every day with bright eyed wonder at the thrill of the future.
The last text you sent me read “When is it best to remember, when is it best to forget?”