Alright. I feel like a Christopher Durang play. A playwright for whom my love once made me edgy and remarkable in your eyes. I don’t know the stature of Mr. Durang in the literary world now. I don’t know if he’s still writing plays. I assume so because that’s not the sort of thing one takes or gives up lightly. But I know your stature and mine and it’s funny the high horse I once rode around on has run off, a wild thing I thought I’d tamed, and it’s funnier still that Christopher Durang remains – slashing thighs and Catholic nuns and dippy, ditzy men and women – but the we-ness of us is all but dissolved.
All but for my fist keeping hold of that last bit of dust. Somehow I think that even if you never came back from exile, even if I never held your hand again, if I kept those crumbs of love and carbon and bone and best intention, I could at least grow a cactus with it. A spiny thing, but alive, and sometimes wont to flower. I was just thinking about you today when they kept telling me how convenient it would be to just have loved someone when the timing was right to love them. How nice it would be now to have put to root something then, back then, with the foreknowledge of time, it would have been damn nice. But in all these cases, the you of you is gone and my fist is trembling and now the thoughts turn strange, foreign. Now I think of what relief it would be to open my hand and let the wind take you from me. Let ever particle be cast the gusts, to the gasps and Chinooks and little breaths that would draw you down to the Santa Anas and leave you in some ravine, some Death Valley.
Something rather all or nothing about the notion, but then again, there was always something all or nothing about you. And in the end, that was your saving grace, because if you’d given me much more than than nothing, I could have never let you leave. I would have called in the National Guard. I would have yelped out in the night.
Instead, I have these nice people around me. And they say nice things without intonation, or borderline racist things without irony or self-awareness and I find myself sanding down the edges of whatever bullshit thing about me was ever edgy just to keep my way smooth with them. But you looked at me and saw a real girl and I guess, sitting here, trying to bring myself to converse with them, knowing I’ll never speak to you again, I miss that. I want that still, miss it, maybe more than I miss you.