01- to feel what it feels like
when i was eighteen
i lost sensation
in my cheeks. it was only
years later, once i felt the
slightest tingling
return to that same skin
that i let myself mourn
its absence (easier to numb
with positivity and denial
than to recount
the beauty and
brokenness
that led to its loss).
that's how it felt today
seeing you. you were sitting
on your fire-escape
six stories high
with that damn laptop and its
silky smooth keys you love
so much. the sun was
intoxicating, beaming a sweetness
so delicious after its six-week
sabbatical.
and just last night,
i saw J on the sidewalk
in front of your apartment,
hunched back in his expandable
chair, watching people
pass by.
in an instant
it brought me back
to last time i saw him
inside your apartment
with your high ceilings and colorful walls,
we were sleepy and effortlessly in sync
from the night before. he came by to pick up
the old computer you
generously offered. defeated, he revealed
that he just returned from the hospital – his sister
found him weeks prior (his unit right below yours) lying
in a pile of darkened blood on his mattress
with hundreds of tiny
cuts across his arms and the inner periphery of his
thighs (where its hardest to
stop the bleeding, he told us). and each time
i think of J (which is often) – it’s met
with a reconciliation,
as i remember
the first
time i met him,
how
palpable – almost
overbearing – his
joy
seemed.
it was right
before we went
to Emily & Ben's – the night
they asked you to officiate
their wedding: a night
so perfect, that
then and now, its
laced with a gentle
gripping thought:
this is the feeling
of true happiness –
we saw J
on our way out
(i smiled politely behind sealed
teeth, inching toward the door – we were
late, they were making shrimp
linguine). we were
trying on a new label
of exclusivity, buzzing
in a glowing
mutual affection,
and we had survived
our first of what would later become
a series of “talks”
merely moments
before.
i observed how you listened
to J with such care, such presence (while
i nudged you,
relentlessly, i did not want
to be any minutes later
than we already were);
i recognized a tingling
sensation in the whole
of my body as
a waking up, an uncovering
of sorts, an unexpected,
unequivocal side effect of
falling for you.
J
greeted us
with an infectious warmth, nonchalantly
detailing triumphs of his week
in place of casual conversation:
how his coworkers hazed
him (mice feces in his locker) – “nobody
fucks with J” we said – how his niece was
back with her abusive ex
(“relationships
are complicated" you said) and just as we
were finally
about to walk out the
door, you turned to J with a
rendition of Paulo
Coehlo’s words: "when you
want something badly enough
the universe conspires
to help you achieve it."
do you really believe that?
i asked, our fingers interlocked
for the next couple blocks, wrapped
in each other and a cool January breeze.
you said, “of course i do,
the proof is that i am now here with you”
(i shook my head. cheesy in a way
that only you could pull off).
for what it’s worth,
i do believe you – it’s just that now
you must want
so badly
to be alone
and
have wanted
so badly
to push me away,
to give up – to let
me and this go,
while i was
ready and willing
to keeping fighting.
and if the universe is
conspiring
now, with each
of our evolved dreams,
perhaps her idea of a dramatic
comedy is to wedge
a global pandemic
between us
(though we both know
that’s not really what’s
standing in the way).
sometimes
i wonder
what narrative you are telling
yourself, about yourself, about us
and
i wonder
if, late at night, when your
guard is down, if you still tell
yourself
that you are
a monster (your words,
not mine) because you know,
deep down, i couldn’t possibly see
you as a monster. when in fact,
i see you as
your heart,
one of the most
stunning and expansive hearts i have
felt in my lifetime
in spite of everything
and because of everything.
in a world of before and after,
i hope that your after
is filled with
protection, of your
self and against your
self, and that you believe that
you are worthy.
and maybe
one day
on my morning walk
again soon
when the streets
carry me toward you (as they always do),
i will look up again
in the direction of the sun
and see you on your fire escape
and i will be ready
to feel
what it feels like
to say hello
again.