I can’t remember the weather the night we met. I want to say it was cold, but how would I know? Drunk is the best jacket, after all, and I was, as is so often the case, either drunk or well on my way. I can’t remember the weather, but I remember that I was on the verge of being rude. It seems sometimes that I am always either on the verge of being rude, or being rude. 


Maybe it was the whiskey, the weather I don’t recall, the strange city we stood in, or the quick glimpse I caught of the lines around your eyes. Whatever changed my mind, it changed it fast, and I decided without deciding, without knowing that a decision had been made, to be charming instead. Or some version of it. 


We talked. What we talked about is another of the many things I don’t and won’t recall throughout however long we know one another. It could have been important, it probably was. But if it was, it isn’t, and if it wasn’t, it still isn’t. It hasn’t become any part of whatever story we’re writing here, and it’s too late now. I know you just a little still, but that little tells me that you don’t recall either. 
You know what I was wearing, and you know what I was doing when you first saw me, but you don’t know what I said to you. You were watching my lips, but you weren’t reading them. Then, when your lips were on mine, a circumstance I may have caused, I wasn’t speaking anymore, and the words I wasn’t saying didn’t matter any more than the words that I was. 


I was full of whiskey you didn’t buy me, and joy you didn’t bring me, and something told me I would know you. 


And so I do, after a fashion. 


It kills me, as it always will, that you think you know me. That you think you can read me, and predict me. That you believe you have figured me out, and that you are never going to be right, because no matter how well I get to know you, I’ve already figured out that you will never get to know me. I’m not really certain why that’s the truth, but it is. I can’t figure out if it’s a lack of interest on your part, a lack of willingness on mine, some blend of both, or something more ethereal, something I can’t put a finger, my lips, or a name to. 


You told me not to fall in love with you, and it couldn’t have been less necessary. You are stunning, all wide shoulders, dimples, that smile and the eyes that make the smile never die. You are witty and sly, elusive and in the moments that you do exist, you make the world shrink and expand in time to some music only we can hear. But you are not a man I will fall in love with. It wasn’t likely, but when you assumed that I might, you killed the possibility in it’s sleep. It didn’t toss or turn, it simply died with a quiet sigh, and it was for the best. 


I want our now to be, and I want our now to be better than we think it is. I want our now to be adventures and excitements, I want the one thing I will not have. I do not want you to be my forever, I do not want you to fall in love with me and I do not want to go back and lazarus my being able to fall in love with you back into existence. I want, instead, for at least a moment during which you realize what I am. What I am capable of. I want you to look at me and know me. It is more my fault than yours that that is impossible, I am always, almost accidentally, telling tiny lies even when I am not speaking. I confuse myself, and I hide what is best about me. It is always this way, but given the limited nature of time, there is no time for you to find out what I am like when it ends. You will most likely never find out what happens when something is broken inside you, what happens when the sunlight hits and I feel we need to enjoy the world more than anyone else. 


Despite all this, I see something ahead, if not far ahead. I see something that won’t be unforgettable, but won’t be forgotten, either. 




I’m still looking forward to now.