Dear You,
I met you last month at a party, you were wearing a black t-shirt that had no writing on it, but looked like it should. You were smoking a cigarette and your hair was mussed up like you had just woken up. You looked deep and mysterious and like you knew about the world. Like you were holding all the answers, maybe not on you right now, but at home on the living room couch or scattered on the dining room table. Perhaps maybe more hidden, more secure. Maybe in a box, or a diary, or under the bed, the mattress, or your pillow, close to you.
You knew my friend and we were introduced, you didn’t say much but I knew you saw me. I remember smiling and saying something about your shirt. Something about the absent Che Guevara and you looked at me and even though you didn’t smile I knew you saw me.
Remember that night? that guy thought you were best friends, he talked to you about the money he owed you, he wanted to borrow some more, he said, were soul mates mate, mate, mate you later, we should stick together. Stick together like glue. When he said glue, he lent in really closely and pursed his lips together like he was going to kiss you.
Later that night I had to leave and you caught my hand and asked for my number, I knew you saw me. I saw you two days later on a Sunday and you looked like you had a pocket of answers and everyone one around us looked at you, on the train, at the movies, at the cafe. They looked at you, glanced at you and I saw what they saw, somebody with the answers, not at home, but on them right now. Holding them in your hand, never showing them, just holding. and I knew you saw me.
We started going out and you were mine, a part of me, near me, you saw me, and through you I had the answers. You made me believe that the answers were with me also, maybe not on me right now but at home, tucked away safely and resolutely in a small stash, away far away, don’t tell anyone. People looked at me and you together, that potent couple that we were, they saw us, they saw that we had the answers. Maybe they stared, they glanced, they peeked, they strayed their eyes in our direction, we had the answers and they saw.
Our friends started to refer to us as them two, those two, those crazy kids, the ones over there, they have all the answers.
When did that fall apart? When did we start to have different ideas? When did you stop seeing me? Was it when I introduced you as my boyfriend and you became awkward and silent. Was it when I tripped and fell and you saw me as fallible and not strong. Was it when I saw you as less than me and you of me. I had the answers and you wouldn’t listen to me. They were hidden away in my house and not yours and you seemed jealous or maybe annoyed that I had stolen the answers and moved them somewhere else. You don’t see me.
I thought I should let you know that I have the answers but if you want you can come and see them sometimes. I don’t think I’d mind, not really. You should wear more black tops.
Friday, July 3, 2009
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