It’s weird. I know it’s the last night I have with him, the last chance I’ll have with him. And I don’t want to let him go. I want to go inside and lay with him, and for him to tell me everything he thinks about me, and for me to tell him everything I think about him, and for us to melt into this sadistic otherworldly morph of love and bodies and warmth and comfort. But I know tomorrow is the last time I’ll see him. And I know I won’t ask him how he feels. So I’ll just sit here. With all my feelings, waiting for his feelings to come, when I know that they never will.
And he’s such a loser. The way he is and acts makes me laugh and smile, and meanwhile I think I feel harder and harder. When he looks at me, he looks at me. And I’m left thinking he doesn’t look at anyone else like that. But is that what I’m seeing. Or is that what he’s seeing. Or is it something we’re both seeing and not saying.
The moments you share when you feel like you’re just sharing them with each other. The moments that feel like you should be wrapped up in each other’s arms. The feeling that this understanding should be understood and our feelings should be felt. Maybe I’m crazy. These moments are in my head and my head is making moments out of nothing. This connection isn’t connecting, and it’s just the common case of unreciprocated lust.
We’re in the desert where there’s nothing around. Nothing in your way except the inevitable fate. The one that eliminates all chance of forming what you wish was there. And I wish it was there. I wish it was obvious. I wish I spent every minute knowing how you felt, knowing that how you felt was how I felt too. The sense of uncertainty seemed so mutual. But the jump into what wasn’t certain was too high. And when he’s high he feels more real. His actions and his angst approaches, and suddenly when I look at him he’s looking at me. One move away. One touch closer. But the uncertainty was too mutual. And we mutually basked in the whirling pool of unsure feelings and open endings.
And now he’s gone. Back to Ireland, and me back to Scotland. When I’ll see him again is uncertain, and unlikely. And I hate that. I wish he was next to me. And I wish I could lay my head on his shoulder. Cautiously, and anxiously anticipating his next move. But his next move was never right. And my moves were always left. Left lingering and wondering. Left wondering all the could have beens and should have dones, and what would have been if his next move was right.
And I wonder what you think when someone mentions my name. I wonder if you smile, or maybe laugh. I wonder if you think of all the memories. The nights we spent getting high in the back of the rental car across California. The days spent in the dodgy motel, and the board games you probably don’t remember. The night we spent on the rocks in the middle of the Joshua Tree desert, or the day we went cycling down all of San Francisco’s hills. I wonder if you think of the car journeys. The music we listened to. The views we shared. I wonder if you remember how your jokes made me laugh. And the times I made you smile. I wonder if you ever wish I was with you. Because I do. I wish you were with me still.