“How is your pining? Are you still pining?”
It’s rumored that kissing a smoker is similar to licking an ashtray. The proclamation is always akin to a public service announcement; a confident warning. It’s what your mother would say to dissuade you from picking up a nicotine habit yourself. Don’t do it: you’ll catch fire too. But right now your mouth tastes like tobacco and chocolate and gin; a poor man’s aphrodisiac. Your lips are on my lips, tongue demanding access, and I yield. Fingers graze your cheek before finding the promised land that is the back of your neck, my teeth buzzing with liquor. I can feel you respond in kind, pulling me deeper, and I sink into you. We separate for air and it’s only now that I notice how much harder it is to breathe without your mouth linked to mine. My hand is clutching the door handle, while yours rests on my knee. Then you grin as your eyes flicker in the shadows (Because you know?), and my gosh, I am hungry for you. We kissed at every red light on the drive here, but I am gluttony incarnate, and just as deadly as the sin. I wish that I could give you something; a word, a rib, a secret, but every offer seems to fall short. Besides, it’s late, and I have work in the morning, so I flee before my willpower is challenged.
(If you asked, I would stay.)
I go inside and let my head hit the pillow, but slumber orbits without landing. I can feel coals in my stomach, a thick smog funneling out of my mouth, eyes, and ears. I clutch my throat, thumb and index finger falling where yours did, and the conflagration rages.
***
A month passes and we play pool together. I’m awful, but you’re a solid teacher. I tell you that I’m incredibly competitive, a good sportsman, but terrible at any role other than victor. At one point, you ask if I’m dating other people and I answer truthfully: no. You say that you are, and suddenly I’m ablaze. It’s not unreasonable for you to have other lovers, I’m just startled because I never considered that I might only be an option. No one wants to be an afterthought, but I’m overjoyed you think of me at all. Still, I’m not even my mother’s second son, so the need to come in first place is ingrained in my marrow. I’ll be damned if this is one tournament I won’t win. I’ve never been good at sharing.
You, some Loki, waiting to deceive, and I, a jealous god quickly pacified. I’m easily satiated, as long as it’s the right concoction of ingredients. I don’t want tribute or spilled wine, just that you’d swear that I am yours and you are mine alone.
We talk at the bar and I notice that I have to force my body to angle towards you. I wonder why, before realizing that it’s the same way I instinctively avoid staring at the sun. I see you see me and the match in my chest is lit. You laugh when I say that I don’t have your number saved, because I’ve always been a believer in jinxes, and I’m afraid if I acknowledge you in that way, the illusion might shatter. Against my better judgment, I’m convinced to add you to my contacts under a pseudonym. You mention facing a marathon of activity over the next few days, so we part ways much earlier than I’d care to admit. I fail to remember the last time I was this disappointed. You kiss me quickly, right before we part ways, and I melt to amber under the streetlights.
“You’re important.”
“You’re important too.”
I turn away before you can see me, incandescent, slinking off into the night.
***
Two days pass and we’re in a crowd, but you make me forget. (Is there a soul here who feels for you the way that I do?) I worry that I’m just one of many, that there’s someone here who could take you from me, but then I recall – you are not mine to be stolen. I resist letting my eyes follow you all over, but when you approach I steel myself. It’s difficult resisting such blatant magic. I sip alcohol from your canteen and we leave at the same time, alone, but together.
“You still have that flask?”
“Yeah, I’ll get it back to you!”
“You better.”
It’s not until hours later that I realize that I could’ve returned what was yours when we passed each other. I laugh as I finger the cool steel, a glass slipper turned metallic, and cling to it like a promise.
***
A week goes by and I am newly 24, but you don’t realize. We head to a music show and take drags from American Spirits on the way there. I don’t smoke, but you do, and this is what guides my shaking hands. I ask if there’ll be a place to put our coats at the venue, or if I should leave mine at home and brave the winter. You say that I can borrow one of yours if needed, and by the time we get there, the heat of the cigarettes has dissipated, so I bury myself in your jacket, overwhelmed by your scent. You spend the night occasionally rising from your chair, whispering to me – who’s playing which instrument, how the pianist is dating the bassist, and so forth. My ear is warm with your breath, your words reverberating through my being. I savor these moments, cataloguing them like butterflies in shadow boxes. Each shift in my seat moves your parka on the back of the chair, and your aroma wafts up like a perfume. The final time you stand, I lean in to listen, my reflex now fully matured, and you murmur, “Thank you for being here” before kissing the side of my head. Blushing from the inside out, I beam, and keep my eyes on the band.
***
Once again, I am ravenous, anxiously waiting for you to carve your name into my mouth. You smile, a riddle glinting in the dim light. I char, the lightning rod into which your storm pours.
***
Perhaps I should be warier. My throat once ran red screaming over wicked lovers and affections that weren’t returned. I was beast and fang and exposed heartbeat, a symphony of chaos, shrieking at a heavenly body that refused to reveal itself to me. However, I see you and every ache is unremembered. Many would’ve considered Icarus a fool, but I now understand his desire to take flight – despite the inestimable danger. I feel the wax baking into my skin when you glance at me, the smell of flesh and feathers scorching the air. But my father did not raise this wolf to be cut from his howl. I try to remember that when my resolve evaporates in your presence, and your moon that should make me lupine goes into my eyes instead.
There’s a certain tenderness necessary for even the slightest infatuation. If we wish to be loved, we must face the ghastly requirement of making our essences vulnerable. So I choose to present my beating heart on a silver platter, bruised and scarred, but carefully mended, and yours, should you take it. I feel that flame flicker between protestation and pursuance, but only high risks yield high rewards. Though I oscillate between suspicion and captivation, disbelief and desire, the instinct to adore is sewed into the fabric of my being. I lower my defenses and just pray that your wooden horse is a true gift, not an instrument of war.
***
Cut to last night when the Greeks enter Troy and you say that we need to pause things, “But still remain friends, if that’s cool?” Suddenly, I’m terrified that the sound of my chest cracking wide open is loud as thunder to everyone in this restaurant. I pull out the mask that I’ve donned so often in the past, an adornment well-worn with use. It pins the corners of my mouth upwards and coats my eyes with a varnish that preserves the lights that have dimmed underneath. Still, I chuckle as I feel my bones stir and settle. Now that the romantic veil has been torn, there’s no pressure to perform. With the pretense demolished, I begin to glow. I’m a little funnier, more irreverent, and less afraid. You respond positively, even as the fur grows in over an elongating face, my big bad returning like clockwork.
Then it occurs to me that this entire situation may have nothing to do with me receiving, and everything to do with me giving. Maybe it’s comfort, or companionship, or a listening ear. Maybe we’re just two comets passing each other in orbit: constellations burning in the same atmosphere. I find it hard to say a word against you – even if that means denying myself. I still like the way your hair falls when you pull off your hood, and how the air catches in your throat when you laugh. I’m filled with wonder when I see how ambitious you are, or the way you’ve built the life that you have. My pulse quickens when you make eyes at me, but I’m doubtful if I can savor all of these things as a friend and nothing more. I’ve given you something, a part of myself that I don’t share with many, and I don’t know how to take it back. At this point, I’m conditioned to care for you in a way that’s less amiable, and more amorous. I’ve been the ex-would’ve, ex-not-quite, ex-we-kind-of-did. I’m so tired of living as an ex-almost. But I know that if I stay, it has to be altruistic. I can’t do it with longing, or hold on to the most infinitesimal glimmer of hope that things will change. I’m a masochist as much as any other, but I’ll have to quench this fire before my fingers burn white. I don’t know myself well enough to say whether or not pieces of my heart will grow back as quickly as I give them away – if at all. I’ve never been one for love at first sight. But I’ve also never had someone look at me the way you do.
***
I muted your Instagram, because I found myself fluttering when I saw your face without warning. When we agree to meet up a few weeks later, you call to say that you’re running late, and your voice rips through me like a gentle wave. You enter the bar, my neurons start firing like cannons, and I know this is not how a loveless companion behaves. (How foolish of me to think that I could navigate a terrain that was composed entirely of landmines.) You’re freshly shorn, and somehow look more like yourself. You say that you’re moving on and moving to another city and I find myself withdrawing. You explain that you just had to reschedule a date with someone in New York, the statement hitting me with the softest of thuds. I nod absentmindedly. I’m not really here and neither are you.
I thought reprogramming might be enough to fix my hardwiring, but I was wrong. I find that I don’t want you touching me; that I shift under the weight of your gaze. It’s not from a lack of desire, but rather, protest. You spoke the truth about what you were expecting, but my heart has never cared much for reality. (I warned you that I was a Pisces.) Twice you declare that you’ve mentioned me to a friend of yours and your father, and I begin to wonder what exactly it is that you want or need from me.
(Do you even know?)
I drive behind you on your bike, and you speed through the streets – zephyr personified. I follow your buzz cut, in awe of your ease of self, your freedom. And in this moment, I understand that this is transient. As infinite as you are, as cosmic as you’ve made me feel, these months were destined to burn bright and fast. I don’t think this is something meant to last a few more weeks, let alone months. I don’t get why you consider me someone who might actually be a fixed point in your life. In what way do you see this continuing? Maybe you just need a north star, a lighthouse to keep you tethered. But I’m not sure I know how to be that for you. Sometimes people are only meant to commune for a winter, and as spring reveals herself, I dread the thought that it might be time to go.
At peace with the idea of you as ephemeral, I exhale any part of your stardust that ever found a home in my lungs. I don’t know that I will, but I have the option to mourn you in your entirety now. You’re in front of me and you’re in Brooklyn and you’re all over this city, and I realize that I was holding my breath up until today. You were a thing to be cradled, like glass. Or dynamite. I never even considered the possibility that you might be an ocean; a monsoon impossible to harbor. You signal that I should make a right at the light, failing to heed the “NO TURN ON RED” sign above, continuing on your way. I hesitate for the briefest second before following suit.
And, suddenly – you’re someone I’d break a law for.
***
We talk and I float through your apartment, eyes widening at all of the records, books, and pieces of music equipment that cover the space. You show me your bedroom, and I say a silent prayer of thanks for never making a home here. I take everything in, doing my best to remember each surface, because it seems to encompass and explain so much of who you are. But, at the back of my mind, there’s also a quiet certainty that leads me to believe this will be the last time I’ll ever be here. As our encounter comes to a close, you mention wanting to meet some of my friends, to hang out again soon, to show me the canvases you’d worked on upstairs next time. I agree without a second thought, though if you looked closely, you might notice that the smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
***
We sit on the steps outside where you offer me a cigarette. I decline. It’s a beautiful night, and the cool air seems easier to drink in, despite the heaviness of the evening. A gentle, steady breeze surrounds us, and I’m slowly pelted with ashes from your Marlboro. I’ve gone from potential lover, to acquaintance, to long-distance, secondhand friend, and you’ve been earnest about every role you’ve wanted me to play. So I take it all, because I’m willing to indulge whatever will make you happy, even if it’s just a fantasy. (Some people see Molotov cocktails, and their instinct is to imbibe.) The last ember burns and you stand up to hug me. Once our limbs untangle from one another, you apologetically mention that, in lieu of connecting on Friday, you’ll be staying at your new place in Bed-Stuy. I don’t give so much as a pause, because even now, the retreat has commenced. We were supposed to go to a concert this weekend, but I say nothing of it. You suggest that I come up to visit you over the summer, and I emphatically agree. (Shorelines recede right before tsunamis breaks land.) I have to begin to scrub you from my skin, scrape the lacquer of your being from mine. There are shards of my soul stuck between your teeth, that I must reclaim to move forward.
“Have a good one,” is my last goodbye, and I walk away. The image of your face, sweet and radiating as you stand on the pavement, sears itself into my mind. You’re unaware that this exchange is our finale. As I close the car door, my mouth fills as it has before, brimming crimson. There’s a low, heavy wail that exists deep in the pit of my being, and I feel it begin to rise as I drive off to lick my wounds in solitude.
***
I silence our texts and delete your number. Now my phone just suggests, “Maybe: *****” as your name. It seems fitting. That old throbbing nestles itself back into my skeleton, and my heart returns to my ribcage, a bit worse for the wear, but beating. It always takes a while for it to resettle into its home. I can tell that it’s agitated with me, curious as to why I allow it to be so easily cauterized, but I’m more apt to bear the weight this time.
When I go to sleep, I don’t dream of you.
***
I well with tears numerous times at work, cursing my body for its delicate biology, and my mind for its fragile constitution. It’s so embarrassing to react so strongly, all because you don’t care for me in that way. So much sadness in reaction to a handful of dates? Regardless, I’m grateful that the grieving process has begun. I feel adrift, but being in open water soothes more than frightens. Consistency and passion are all I seek, and I know that you will give me neither. Conversely, I’m not sure I’m capable of sustaining you with what you want. Still, you’ve articulated an interest in us being further invested in each other’s lives, although I’m not convinced that it’s in the cards for us.
Like all of my lessons in heartbreak, I’ve learned much more about myself than you. I wish I could be more cautious, but my love is an unfettered animal, champing at the bit, eager to hunt, or be hunted. Despite the anguish, I wouldn’t rewrite any part of this history. I’ve noticed a shift in myself thanks to you. There’s a sharper focus when I approach my art and music, more intentionality surrounding my choice to be present. The sky seems bluer.
***
Another month with sporadic communication goes by, you ask to see me, and I heed your command like a dog, despite the fact that you cancel five times before it happens. I wait by the restaurant and you stride towards me and I try to feel nothing while feeling everything. We eat and debrief on what’s happened since we last rendezvoused. All is well until you talk about your dating life. That particular topic of conversation pushes me outside of my own body, hovering above the sad boy that sits below me. (Offer no pity. Remember he wanted this.) You mention how laidback I’ve been about us not being together, how “good” I am when it comes to hearing of your new flames, and this echoes through me later when sleep is evasive. And that’s when I know that we cannot go on like this. I consider sending you this story, in all of its ugliness and candor, with no context or forewarning, because the thought of inflicting a mortal wound is more appealing than a conversation that requires me to be a raw nerve ending. But that’s the easy way out, and you’re worth more than cowardice, so a face to face discussion must be had. So I spend the next five days preparing, figuring out the 11-minute eulogy that I beg will lay this to rest.
We go to an album release party, my bones rattling when you reveal that you’re bringing another friend along, and I begin to fear that I’ll never be determined enough to say this out loud. One of your exes is here, and I feel every follicle on my body raise. It’s a lovely concoction of anxiety, a hint of jealousy, and the slightest bit of curiosity. Perhaps there’s someone else in this room whose core has been fractured the way mine has.
The night goes on as our little trio talks in between songs, swaying to the music over the loudspeakers. The genres dance between sugary sweet indie pop and raw acoustic openers, until the main act takes center stage. I can feel the bass guitar throbbing from my toes upwards, cymbals crashing in my ears, but still, it comes across as nothing more than background noise. You steal sips from my cheap beer and I take puffs from your Korean cigarettes, our hands engaged in a simple dance of exchange. The fear that even the slightest touch will betray my intentions is subsumed by the utter intoxication, a euphoria that’s completely unrelated to any drugs or alcohol. After the show, we find a taproom, enjoying each other’s company, and there’s a sliver of my psyche that almost believes this could satiate me. But then you brush against me, and this idea flees. Eventually the trio downsizes to the two of us, and I find us parked outside of my home, just like that first night.
***
I begin to wonder if this is how Judas felt before the kiss. I quickly glance outside of the window, scanning the dark for any sadducees or pharisees lying in wait, when the air begins to crackle. Then I know the exact second I have to act. And as I open my mouth, still slick with the taste of strawberry cider, every neurotic tendency comes out to play. Muscles twitching, tongue bone dry, chest full of embers, I offer the following sentiment:
“I don’t think we should see each other for a while. You talked about how well I reacted when you ended the dating side of things, but I took that a lot harder than I let on. I couldn’t ask you to prioritize me in that way. I won’t. You don’t owe me anything. I expected you to move to New York and this would all fizzle out, but you’re still here and…I don’t like the way I feel when I’m with you.”
At this point, you slump a bit, as if each word is another ten pounds. But the levees have broken.
“I’m sorry, I know that sounds terrible, but I mean it in the sense that being this close to you makes me feel so alive, like I’m high, but the comedown and withdrawals are painful. I don’t want to hurt just for the thrill of it. If things had started differently, I think I would’ve valued having someone as smart and funny and so, so special as a friend. But I can’t change that. And I don’t want to keep you as some consolation prize.”
I can sense the clock tick closer and closer to midnight, and I’m irrationally terrified that this car will revert to some colossal gourd in the next few minutes.
“I feel so stupid and childish for making a big deal out of this, like, I’m genuinely embarrassed. But if I don’t take space now, I know this wound won’t close.”
You maintain a sad smile as you listen, but keep your eyes on the steering wheel, seldom looking at me. I’m tipsy, and the script that was so meticulously written beforehand slips through my trembling grasp. You say that you’re tired, and I bristle at my poor timing. The ears that this careful planning have fallen upon aren’t deaf, but they’re tired. I can tell that I’m touching your leg too much, but I need an anchor for this capsizing ship, as I sail through a storm of my own making. I don’t consider you responsible for a disease that I allowed to metastasize. I hope that every ounce of the albatross around my neck bites into my skin, because this curse is one I will have to shoulder alone. I hate the idea of causing you to enact emotional labor, especially as your exhaustion begins to seep into the atmosphere. Yet something in me has come undone, and the emotional floodgates have been loosed, every shred of sorrow now waxing poetic. The speech that I planned on adhering to has been lost in translation, as I go from explaining in English, to speaking in tongues. What I say is grotesque and awkward, verbose but true, and I’m glad I’m able to wring my heart out in front of you. At the end of my rambling, you understand, we hug, and I feel better as I release you. I go inside, taking inventory of whatever fragments of my personhood that I was able to recover, and bask in the soft pulsing of this small victory. I succumb to slumber, and spend the night suspended in onyx, altogether dreamless. And, again, I release you.
***
There’s much to be said of artists who revel in the pain of their work. I send you this story, as is, and hope that it eloquently explains what I failed to verbalize in person. You said you’d read it soon, when you had some free time, then the days turn into weeks, and the weeks shift into months, and although I check every frequency, you maintain radio silence. I worry that I came off as unhinged, that it was a mistake to reveal so much. Initially, I thought I was at peace with being a kamikaze, but now that the jet has exploded, the shrapnel seems to cut much deeper than I anticipated. I’d rather you call me crazy, or express disappointment, than nothing. Love and hate are on two opposite ends of a spectrum, but in both cases, they involve some kind of emotional investment, some form of care. Even if you despise me, at least I manage to cross your mind on occasion. But the apathy? The disengagement? Have mercy on me.
It’s like you’re a priest, and I’m a parishioner who’s just divulged his most vile sins, only to be met with no sound other than a faint ringing in his ears. I peek through the lattice of the confessional booth to try and find your form, but it’s too opaque to see clearly. Are you still there? Can I be forgiven? In my mind, you were my patron saint, the only one capable of granting me absolution. But in reality, I hadn’t even taken the time to forgive myself for the homunculus I sired. I only have possession over my narrative, and I choose to let this chapter be remembered as one that hummed with courage. (Not everyone can speak of heartache to the one for whom they bleed.) When I look back, I will not be a pillar of salt.
My life is still happening, it has to, even without you. I’ve been working out and spending time with my friends, creating, and sitting with myself. I just bought that house I mentioned – the one with room for the small garden out back. I ended up making it to Colombia in October. I started taking classes again in January. I don’t smell you on my clothes anymore. The globe continues to turn, but how on earth am I supposed to cross a sea with broken limbs?
I Frankensteined myself into this unholy creature, crafted from traces of misplaced optimism and foolhardy expectations, jaw straining from the unsaid so much that my tongue was torn to ribbons. But the price was readily paid. If I claimed that hindsight is 20/20, that’d I’d do things differently, that would be a lie. Had you asked for all I had left, I still would’ve breathed into you.
As low as that valley was, I can’t imagine turning what we had, whatever it was, into some kind of “lesson”. Mostly because I’m not convinced that I learned anything other than the fact that I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love. (I’ll only ever land, stance even, eyes unflinching.) There isn’t always a proverb to be yielded from ecstasy, nor should there be. You weren’t an education, or some rite of passage. You were my whole world for what felt like an eon. But even Atlas must rest.
***
I remember the first time I saw you, before we even talked. In theory, you were still your digital avatar: a small collection of photos and a short bio. But I knew who you were the moment we crossed paths. Somehow, we’d both scheduled back-to-back appointments with the same tattoo artist, and you held the door for me as you left the studio. You’d breezed past before my brain caught up with my heart.
I don’t necessarily want a doppelgänger who imitates you. I’m not only attracted to artists or terribly selective when it comes to appearance. But the handful of suitors that followed you made me aware of what I crave most. Magic. The aligning of planets. Stars in my eyes. Straw spun into gold. I know what it looks like to be completely enraptured. I can no longer settle for anything less.
***
I guess you must’ve sold your truck, because now I see it parked in front of some strange house every day I drive to work. Each time I see the trunk of your Ford, the rear stenciled in the Old English font that you painted, I have the odd sensation of tracing a familiar scar. Not the type that’s still sore, or hot to the touch, no, more like a token, a small reminder of what was survived.
***
Maybe there’s a world where you look at me and simmer, or a dimension where you sense my presence and your skin smolders, but it’s a realm that’s inaccessible to me. I exist in the here and now, with a fate that put a crack right down the middle of us. My circumstance is one that desperately needs to unstitch your name from beneath my tongue. You held the knife, but I’m the one who walked into it over and over again, all because I thought you might take the act as an offering. (If you had commanded me, I don’t think I would’ve hesitated to pour my blood on your altar.) But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m so tired and upset that I decided to fall for someone who never offered to catch me. I’m disappointed in myself for writing songs for you when you didn’t ask, pining for yet another valentine undone. The tiniest part of me is beginning to think that I’m all I’m supposed to have. And an even smaller portion is terrified that that might not be enough.
***
I have a theory that, given the right set of circumstances, anyone could find themselves in love with anyone. Regardless of race, gender, age, etc., we, as humans, have an unmatched capacity for connection. Because of that, I’m convinced that I fall a little bit in love constantly. With the clerk at the supermarket. Or the teller at the bank. Or the librarian who helped me check out books. I’ve been head over heels for coworkers and friends, strangers and enemies, even if it’s just for split seconds. All because I like the way that particular sleeve was adjusted, or the way you moved your hair out of your face. It doesn’t take much at all. Sometimes simple gestures, like going out of your way to be kind or thoughtful, do the trick. Almost like I’m microdosing on oxytocin. I used to think that being this open dulled my senses and cheapened the experience. But now I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My love is an inexhaustible resource.
In this cavalcade of paramours, hopefully there will be giants among them. If we’re lucky enough, we’ll all have great loves in our lives. They’re the ones who’re immortalized in a pantheon of desire, their totems wrapped in garlands, slathered in honey and palm oil, incense forever floating around them in that temple. And now your image is among mine.
Should you and I bump into each other while running through Hampden, I expect that my heart might still skip a beat. (Or two.) But I wouldn’t dare go further. Your idol is sufficient.
It must be.
***
I started chronicling all of this the day after we met, and now I’m healing through our ending. It’s not the one that I asked for, but I’m praying that it’s the one that’s needed. I’m trying to extinguish whatever candle that might still be burning for you. Not out of bitterness, or retribution, but because it’s time. I don’t want to be apology incarnate anymore.
This isn’t the moment where I leave you because you left me first. It’s suffocating fires that almost left me a ruin, and using the rich soil that remains to grow something extraordinary. Perhaps I’ll reclaim the forest that once stood here, and walk through it with a lover whose hand feels cool in mine. Or maybe I’ll be left all alone to play in a kingdom of cinders. But right now, I’ve found a way to exorcise your ghost, so the specter feels more like a small blessing than a curse. I awaited the day when the only time I would have to briefly see your face was as the morning rose, and nearly forgot that there’s so much beauty in the crush of dawn. You illuminated for a while, but night has now come, shining in all of her glory. The stars abide with me; their secrets and their charms a salve in my ears, repairing those parts of me that I let you break. I can see the edge of these woods.
It may not be tomorrow, or next week, or next month, but one day, I will learn to unlove without forgetting, and figure out how to let go of those I adore without leaving claw marks.
Earth beneath my feet, drowning in the quiet, I will think of you and turn into moonlight.