Nous

I asked him about it six months later. “I don’t think we really ever trusted each other. You shut down … mostly because you’re selfish and you believe your giving is never reciprocated. But the majority of people are selfish. It’s human nature.”

Candid in shots. Happiness in you, I did that.

You once asked me, “Do we only ever find one person?” I wish I could string words together To hold you accountable, rational: I am right here.

Say it didn’t work out, that fate pulled us apart. No. Say you didn’t try with me.

It’s not a question of emotions or feelings. It’s one of morality – and how you can criticize mine despite having none at all.

I reference that episode of HBO’s Girls – the one where Lena’s character stumbles across this older, well-established man and in the process of absorbing his attention somehow becomes his live-in distraction. The quote “… and you’ve got the fruit in the bowl in the fridge with the stuff … I realize I’m not different, you know? I want what everyone wants. I want what they all want. I want all…

How does the city feel without her in it? To be left on a Tuesday? To know that when the bars, beers, and music stops And you sink back to unit 14 even with the next girl, That you’re alone. And she’s gone.

I miss a version of you – a bit less brash, a bit more benign.

… because he was mid-breakup, there was an assortment of his and hers, boxes and disarray. I felt intrusive – everything had history. It was haunting. I was climbing over her the second I entered that house. Magnets on the fridge from trips they had taken, each a tiny memory. Books on the shelf in various languages, all hers, all interesting. The bed they shared, muscle memory compelling him to…

… but there were more passing comments about my friends, my job, my clothes, my time, my tendency to type a lot or speak too much; he would rephrase things I wrote to him in point form and offer a mansplained version of “you could have just said it like this”. He complained about the informality of my writing in Facebook messenger chats; began to dissect interactions with people in my life. He…

You’re just fucking rad. I know you know that, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded.

In candid photographs I have of him, I register an emptiness. He’s looking at me, and there’s adoration, but also something foreign and vague: an emotional unavailability. With each visit, these photos would catalog his dissatisfaction in me, in himself. Cue months of me taking international flights, spending nights in hotels like a cheap one-night stand whose date shows up half the time, and…

Feet first, the little things. No safety in guessing – How could we catch each other If we both jumped?