Monday, February 2nd, 2015
The distance between us feels palpable now, maybe measurable by the inches of slush accruing between Allen Street and Brooklyn. Time feels oddly tangible: it is my frost-bitten fingertips that a year ago I could have clutched to yours inside the pocket of your jacket to try to warm, it is the month that hasn't been, the month that came and went without the sound of your voice, it is the queue of recent text exchanges none of which read your name. The more time passes without you the more I realize how long a year and a half really is, was, and how many moments were shared with you. Running over the Manhattan Bridge and up stairwells in Chinatown to catch the breeze off rooftops, stuffy noses playing tag between us, fighting over who should clean the dishes. I wish you would leave my memory alone. I wish I felt okay being alone. I wish we, I, had been able to work it out.