The Truth Is:

You are so beautiful. So. Fucking. Beautiful.

I wish I had been more aware when we met. Maybe you would have really given us a chance. You seemed less jaded, more silly, less worn, had fewer battle scars from the wear and tear of city life and its gravity pushing in on you from all angles.

When we met, compassion poured from you. At first, I thought you weren’t interested at all. Of course. A good-looking guy–why would he want me? And then, you turned towards me and asked me about myself. We didn’t stop talking for a couple of hours. We talked so much about so many things that everyone who came outside to smoke went in, and when we returned, frozen from the cold, and continued talking, my ex gazed out the window perturbed.

That was day one.

We wrote each other emails pen-pal style about our lives, about questions we had for each other, and about deeper things. I was going through some really heavy stuff during this time and slacked off on talking for a while…You were my little secret, because no one we were with that night could know that we had become good friends.

Our bond was formed immediately after that first day, because I believed you when you told me your side of things; I had empathy. You said that I was a better person than the people we were with that night, and you just knew upon meeting me. You never gave up on me, even though I was difficult to reach at times.

You came to visit on a couple of occasions; you tried to put the “moves” on me. I rejected your advances, although the lady at the restaurant took down our name as the “really attractive couple” while we were waiting to be seated.

You remembered everything I’d ever told you. You even remembered, a year later, the name of the fruity drink we ordered at Meadow on a dinner date.

I don’t. Admittedly. That whole time we were friends was a frenzied, horrific mess in my head. My heart was splintered and worn, and my thoughts often drifted off to other places or I was too busy getting trashed with my friends so I could subdue heartache.

I remember chatting with you on Facebook Messenger when I found out that my flight back from Cleveland was canceled due to bad weather. I don’t recall what we said to another.

I had every opportunity to ask you more about your life. You had ample time to provide it. When we finally spoke again this January, you told me you missed our emails–could we email like we used to? I told you yes, of course.

I remember when you had finally given me your phone number, because you were going to visit family in California and wouldn’t be near a computer. I texted you one snowy afternoon, while in the living room watching “Spring Breakers” (ironically starring James Franco, the very man who has you by the balls, working like a horse, at his Studio). We went back and forth for a while, but what we talked about? I don’t know, sadly. I bet you might.

Now I remember everything. From the smell of your skin to the freckles on your chest. The pale shade of your hands and the geometric shapes adorning your knuckles. Your sleepy voice. Your silly voice. Your seductive voice. I remember details about your life you’ve shared and the dates of all your performances I never got to see. You are so busy that you forget things I’ve told you. Your pretty head so rife with lines, with places you have to be, with things you need to accomplish, that you have room for nothing else.

So unfortunate that we had to reunite when everything you’ve wanted in your career is beginning to fall into place. There’s no room for me at all.

But there was. For a time.

For a time, you made every effort you could to come see me. We rapaciously texted each other throughout the day and sleepily talked on the phone late at night. I tortured you while you were at work with thoughts about what I wanted to do to you when I saw you next, and you made me accidentally spill an entire glass of water on my desk at work when you sent me a photo of your post-workout abs.

It was much more than that, of course. Finally, we had both found someone we could trust. Someone we couldn’t get enough of. Another soul that filled ours with the effects of opium every time we talked or thought about the other.

It was magical.

When we were together, it was hard not to want to be continually touching. We giggled and did silly psychology tests and surveys together. We played out fantasies. We lazed on the couch, holding hands, watching tv shows. We went out on dinner dates. We groggily went out to breakfast the following mornings. I made you coffee that was sickeningly sweet–the way you like it.

I missed you so fiercely while we were apart, and it was nearly too much for me. So many months began to slip by without a visit, because you were about to be homeless or were completely immersed in a thousand duties and rehearsals.

It was hard. Really fucking hard. But I thought we were doing a damn good job of making the best of it. Of talking when we could. Of keeping the romance and spark lit. I was thoroughly impressed with us. Any time my voice changed from effervescent to sultry, you nearly had to sit down because of my affect on you. We were beating the odds, because of both of our hard work and communication.

Then, I dunno, you started to recoil a bit. Becoming more busy, you realized you hadn’t told me I was beautiful in days. The tiredness in your voice was apparent when we spoke, and I felt you pushing me away when I asked about your dad or when I accidentally interchanged the words “seeing each other” for “dating each other”. You reassured me this had nothing to do with your feelings.

You, afraid of disappointing me, were hesitant to set dates for when we might see each other, because twice you had to cancel our tentative plans.

It was becoming painful not seeing you.

Then…I saw you. You! Gorgeous, beautiful you.

We reunited at Penn Station a little after noon. We saw each other from several yards away and you quickened your pace, and I, standing in a red dress, dropped my bags as you came towards me. Just like in the movies, we kissed, we embraced, we kissed some more. Then, hand-in-hand, we got on the subway.

On the subway, we kissed, we held hands, we kissed some more. It was nothing short of incredible to finally touch you again. And at your apartment, we spent many hours alone together doing what you expect two lovers to do when they haven’t seen each other in months. Then, we blissfully lazed around naked, playing video games, being goofy, and taking pictures.

We walked to the water’s edge in Williamsburg, clasping hands. We ate pizza; we had ice cream. And then, you had to take me to Manhattan to see my friend. I thought that I would get to spend the next night and all of the following day with you, but as luck would have it, rehearsals and studio got in the way.

I know you can’t help it–the responsibility you have is huge, but my heart sank. I was finally in the city and I couldn’t wake next to you.

Over breakfast on my last day in the city I told you I couldn’t do this anymore.

It hurts to like you so much. It hurts not having you, too. There is no winning, here.

We spent the rest of the day like we were in love. We walked on a flower-covered bridge. We sat on a bench in front of the water. We made-out and didn’t care who was watching. We told each other how beautiful the other’s eyes were. How the sunlight plays on them and lights them up…and in that tender moment, your voice got weak. We closed in and kissed again, arms wrapped around each other tightly.

My train was delayed and you had to leave. I didn’t want to let you go. We had been standing in front of the train schedule for twenty minutes, my head buried in your chest. Tears began to fall onto your shirt–you said it was a good look and you didn’t mind. You told me not to cry. I told you how could I not when nothing compares? And after kissing goodbye at least a dozen times, you walked away towards the subway. Right before you entered the tunnel, you turned to look at me and waved.

Then you were gone.

I was alone in a massive current of people, moving in different directions to their destinations. Mine was, first, the bathroom to cry, then, outside to smoke, and finally, inside to head home without you.

You always say to me that things went the way they did and they couldn’t have gone any other way. The way they went is the way they had to go.

This time you didn’t have to let me go. You could have brought me back to your room, late at night, so we could enjoy each other. You could remember why you like me so much–how I am not like other girls…or even other people. How I have traced the scruff on your handsome face and sent you surprise cards in the mail to brighten your day. How I was supportive and understanding to you during one of your toughest points this summer and never gave up. How nothing could fill the void of missing me or how nothing will ever compare in this lifetime.

You could have remembered those things and not let me go.

You said I am much braver than you for opening my heart again and again. The truth is: the bravest thing I’ve done was tell you that my heart hurts and I can’t continue. Nothing in me wanted to say those words, but I’ve been waiting for ten years for a love like this, and if you’re just going to fade away, I can’t take the heartache. Not after baring myself to you.

I have to get back on the subway and get off at the next stop, wandering around lost in a city of people who are not you.

Tu me manques.

2 thoughts on “The Truth Is:

  1. Pam says:

    You did do the bravest thing by walking away when you weren’t getting enough. But it is so excruciating to turn away from love. The right things are sometimes the hardest.

    >

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