I’ve wished I could re-meet you, just stumble into you at
some hipster coffee shop while we wait for our grande non-fat lattes. And once again you’d look in my eyes with
that combination innocence and purpose.
We’d chat, bond over our shared loved of Lauren Graham in “Parenthood” and after awhile you’d casually
brush my sleeve. I'd wonder if it was an accident until you run your oddly delicate fingers up and down my non-existent bicep,
and again, like then, I would know.
Only this time I’d be prepared. I’ve studied my shit up like Bill Murray in
“Groundhogs Day” and you, miraculously do not remember having met before.
And this time I would know to hold back, not to show my proverbial
cards too easily, splayed out on the table in easy submission to your
charms. If I could only do that then I could wrap my arms
around your zealful mystery again, put my lips on you as your tongue rushes to meet mine.
I hate fantasizing, holding fast to a non-existent you, this idealized you
without the irresponsibilities, the lies of omission, without the carefully
thought out/over mature decisions that shut out possibility. But I miss that light, that wholesome,
guiless, puppy dog sexuality. Miss the
way you danced and I could watch you, knowing what you’d move like later with
the lights out from the seemingly careless swivel of your hips.
And yet, I know. Know
with certainty that life in this moment, the current set of situations, our
separateness is for the best. We cannot
always save each other. But we can savor
each other. Save that for a grocery
store greeting card or a magnet that goes up on the fridge. It's too clever. Trite. It says nothing.
If I could take a pill and make myself
mysterious to you again- would I?
When you were mine, I was far from certain.
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