I would ask how it’s going, but I already know. I know because I’m not afraid to look you up, or say hi, or meet you for drinks. I know because keeping up with you doesn’t torment me. I’m glad to know you’re doing well; I’m glad you’re there to retweet my tweets. I’m glad we never made it to the point of no return. I'm glad that even when we did, we managed to circle back to civility and friendship.
What we had wasn’t epic, and it certainly wasn’t eternal – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. We swapped stories and spit; most times, we shared more than that. Beds. Meals. Toothbrushes. Homes. We met each other’s friends, and sometimes even each other’s families. That was good enough, wasn’t it? Great, even. We devoured each other’s details; we ate up the minutiae like every date was Christmas. My mind felt more full when I left you; it was overflowing with wonder. You never gave yourself away and I’d think, “As it should be.”
Of course, it was far from perfect. You’d hurt me once in a while; maybe you’d neglect my birthday or our rendezvous would become infrequent; then nonexistent. We became too indifferent to argue about anything. I wanted to hate you, but I’d have to love you first – and maybe I never quite got there, did I? What a relief.
Don’t get me wrong. I considered it in the most casual way possible. I really Liked You. But saying, “I Love You,” and meaning it, that’s heavy. We were too fun for that. We Liked Each Other Too Much. Seems silly, seems almost childish, but we couldn’t love each other because we liked each other. ‘Like’ is a pompom, it’s a firework. It’s celebratory and exciting. But love? Love is a tattoo. Love is a 16-car pileup. Love is a scar. Permanent; crippling; ugly.
We never made it there, but that’s okay. We made it to other places. We made it to the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Dallas, but never to our final plans in Chicago. We made it to my bedroom, where you made me watch Pawn Stars for the first time. We made it to unmarked bars, to outdoor campfires by the lake, to the beach. We made it to the underside of bridges. We played poker, we played phone tag. We made out in the rain and in the middle of sidewalks for so long that it went from clichéd to avant-garde and then back again. We got kicked out of places together; we got locked out of places together. That certainly counts for something.
You taught me what People I Loved couldn’t – that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. That I don’t have to regret my choices. Sometimes, I made pretty good ones – like dating you. I learned that dating should feel good. It shouldn’t cause your teeth to gnash; it shouldn’t wrack you with anxiety. It didn't have to be all or nothing. You taught me that the default after the regression of a relationship isn’t complete and utter destruction. It can be a friendly text, a retweet, a thumbs up when one of us accomplishes something we’ve been working at for years.
Thanks for giving me memories, giving me your friendship, giving me hope. I’m always rooting for you.
XO (Drinks soon?)
What we had wasn’t epic, and it certainly wasn’t eternal – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. We swapped stories and spit; most times, we shared more than that. Beds. Meals. Toothbrushes. Homes. We met each other’s friends, and sometimes even each other’s families. That was good enough, wasn’t it? Great, even. We devoured each other’s details; we ate up the minutiae like every date was Christmas. My mind felt more full when I left you; it was overflowing with wonder. You never gave yourself away and I’d think, “As it should be.”
Of course, it was far from perfect. You’d hurt me once in a while; maybe you’d neglect my birthday or our rendezvous would become infrequent; then nonexistent. We became too indifferent to argue about anything. I wanted to hate you, but I’d have to love you first – and maybe I never quite got there, did I? What a relief.
Don’t get me wrong. I considered it in the most casual way possible. I really Liked You. But saying, “I Love You,” and meaning it, that’s heavy. We were too fun for that. We Liked Each Other Too Much. Seems silly, seems almost childish, but we couldn’t love each other because we liked each other. ‘Like’ is a pompom, it’s a firework. It’s celebratory and exciting. But love? Love is a tattoo. Love is a 16-car pileup. Love is a scar. Permanent; crippling; ugly.
We never made it there, but that’s okay. We made it to other places. We made it to the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Dallas, but never to our final plans in Chicago. We made it to my bedroom, where you made me watch Pawn Stars for the first time. We made it to unmarked bars, to outdoor campfires by the lake, to the beach. We made it to the underside of bridges. We played poker, we played phone tag. We made out in the rain and in the middle of sidewalks for so long that it went from clichéd to avant-garde and then back again. We got kicked out of places together; we got locked out of places together. That certainly counts for something.
You taught me what People I Loved couldn’t – that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. That I don’t have to regret my choices. Sometimes, I made pretty good ones – like dating you. I learned that dating should feel good. It shouldn’t cause your teeth to gnash; it shouldn’t wrack you with anxiety. It didn't have to be all or nothing. You taught me that the default after the regression of a relationship isn’t complete and utter destruction. It can be a friendly text, a retweet, a thumbs up when one of us accomplishes something we’ve been working at for years.
Thanks for giving me memories, giving me your friendship, giving me hope. I’m always rooting for you.
XO (Drinks soon?)
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