happy · sad

A release

Somebody asks me a question about you. I savor the opportunity to discuss your will and wants and plans. They clearly don’t know we’re no longer together; I no longer represent you. It feels so good to let out all this knowledge I have, wasting inside. My internal dialogue still debates with you, still plans everything I want to tell you, how I want to frame it, cherry picking the details you’ll find most interesting. All the scripts rot in my mind. 


Lives we choose

My overstuffed backpack presses on my shoulders, pushing down my upper body, leading my eyes to the ground. Bits of salad still lingering between my teeth, I dodge to the bathroom, confidently betting myself there’s at least five minutes until the final boarding call. Still, I move with urgency: I am commando, having forgotten to bring fresh underwear to lunchtime spin class. I can feel myself rubbing directly against my pants. 

An oversized bicep nearly collides with my face: Looking up, I see a man using his other arm to jokingly smack his beaming girlfriend: she laughs. They glide across the airport.

We smiled like that in this terminal.

Even though we decided not to spend our lives together, we could make it together, right? If we were alone in this world, the final woman and man on earth, we’d enjoy each other, I’m sure of it. If we decided to be, we would be happy together, like the tall couple chooses to be, today, now.


I walk in the direction of home

spiltI walk in the direction of home.

I know the path paths where you live, where sometimes I got to live, a place where sometimes we would walk to together along this path.

I think you’re there now. 

I stop in the yogurt place, like we would. I don’t wait for you to try a gross flavor like Black Cherry. I order something. I walk out. 

I remind myself: I don’t live at that place anymore; I don’t belong on that side of the street anymore; I don’t have reason to cross that way anymore. I dissect the large and overwhelming triangular intersection with fresh, wide eyes, unsure of where to turn. Staring at the blinking, red hand, I am unbalanced, and my spoon falls to the gravel.

I pick it up. Three miles to go; your sink within three minutes reach. I imagine texting you with this emergency: “Please, I need to wash my spoon before the froyo melts!” I laugh at how perfect the incident, the perfect anecdote of your perception of a flighty, silly me. 

It’s a cold and misty Monday night in March. No one walks from Harvard to Boston. The sidewalks are all mine.