C l i f f o r d .

“If I never see you again, I will always carry you inside, outside, on my fingertips, and at brains edges, and in centers. Centers of what I am of what remains.” - Charles Bukowski.

You encouraged the impracticality of our friendship, I was lost during a time when I believed my purpose was to remain empty and alone. You opened up my eyes to the comfort Bukowski’s world gave me, and I found a confidant in another who relied on his own misgivings for pleasure. Honesty reveals itself with every shot of whiskey, and you often found yourself pining for one too many. I have long since poured everything I remember down the drain, of us, of the picture in my head of what it’s like to wake up wasted at the mention of your name, of the conversations we exchanged at the brink of dawn when I would search for an escape in the tight corners of your embrace. I have carried your words however vague and meaningless deep in my throat. You were curious as to what I held undiscovered, and my insecurities mistook your warmth for authenticity. I held contempt at how easily it was to regard each other as empty nothings when the end finally came.

As I sit here trying to pen my thoughts on paper, I admit that I have long since forgotten what it’s like to acknowledge you, to recognize your existence or note what happened that time one summer ago. I brush the thought aside whenever I catch myself remembering, because there will always be a part of me that yearns for the chance to redo what was undone. However, I do admit that there are nights when I find traces of you lingering in cursive as I open up old dusty notebooks. There was a time that we existed, a time when we saw the potential of lust substituting the desire for permanence.