October 24, 2009


Alternative title to this blog: To you

Seventeen years ago today I fell in love with you. Doesn't that seem unbelievable? And how did I know so fast? Was I really that intuitive? Or was I just young and naive and hopeful?

I remember every inch of you: the smell of your hair, the particular shade of brown of your eyes, your long eyelashes, the feel of your hands, the shape of your feet, your impatience in traffic.

I dream of you when I am anxious and afraid. Cricket no longer calls your name, but I imagine that sometimes I still must in my sleep.

I still think of things that I want to tell you and show you, and then I remember that I can't. And even if I could, you probably wouldn't want to hear or see them.

You told me once that you didn't know what to say to me that didn't involve writing a book. And then you never told me any of them.

I can remember an evening in Richmond so clearly. We had come back from dinner, and were walking up the stairs to my apartment. You were 2-3 steps in front of me. At that moment I loved you so much I wanted to bury my face in your neck and steal your warmth and bite you to make sure you were real and living and breathing.

I don't know where you are or what you are doing or how to get in touch with you, and I never dreamed that I would say those words. I don't know how to wrap my head around the fact that I will probably never lay eyes on you again.

I want you to know that if you needed something I would do whatever I could to give it to you. And I want you to know that I take you with me everywhere I go, and that some part of each and every day is still trying to figure out how to be without you.

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