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are out there.


buddhism ? # =
poets ? # =


03 Jan 2002 / 12:25 a.m.
.:  unsent

This is something that will never be sent, I think. It's probably not for you, but I have to tell someone, and telling the Internet is safe.


I do think about you every day. I know you know that.

I remember meeting you, my friend's little sister - you had him vexed - smarter than him, wry, teasing the boy. He was dismissive, but we all knew you ran him in circles.

I remember how well you fit in with us, out on the lawn, under stars and cottonwood trees. We marked summer nights in that circle, listening to frogs and crickets. I watched you through the flying conversations. Your deep-set eyes in streetlight sparkle, your lips moving over words and laughter.

I remember wondering even then what your skin smelled like, how your hair felt.

Then graduation, moving away, college, drugs, women, and finally a death that brought me running home.

You were different, not so innocent - a year in Seattle, months in Phoenix. A gated community, buying weed from your friend there, a drive across town, listening to Jeff Buckley while we had sex. It should've been so much more fucked up than it really was. I found out how your skin smelled, felt hot breath, watched you over me in the darkness, moving.

Months followed - 40 oz malt liquor, getting high behind the funeral home, you ran around in geisha lipstick, curlers, and a towel. We had sex a few more times. I remember each of them - every ephemeral, every hot exhaltation. We never dated, always friends, and I never told you how I really felt. Not once. Never hinted.

You found him, then, and then (so so fast) you were married, then had a beautiful baby. He left you, the coward. My jaw hurts when I think about it.

We find each other, we lose touch, years pass. I think about you all the time, even now. Lying next to other girls I think about you. At work. When I'm walking, driving, reading books. I wonder where you are, what your little girl sounds like, whether you think about me.

I wonder what would happen if I told you I loved you, that I've felt this way for years? That I've got all the baggage that goes with heavy unspoken things, that I know I was a coward or blind or both? Would that be wrong to say?

Would you say anything back?

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