Monday, September 19, 2016
I'm going to call you Joel in this post. Alex comes naturally. But I met you as Joel, that day we were in queue and you wore a breton striped long-sleeve and huarache sandals. I think we shook hands. I think I immediately admired your radiant spirit. And I think that I have never felt so rewarded in my predetermined assignation to any other friendship.
This September, we spent less than a handful of days with each other; abbreviations of some warm afternoons with fragmented sunlight, where I cannot recall anyone bringing out laughs from me as consecutively as you still do. The past and present momentarily shake hands.
I cannot recall:
Of anyone I can welcome into the detached spread of my own space, that one I call home. I unlace all the places where my heart belongs, and cry when I explain why it can't palpitate in a town like this.
Of anyone whose waves follow the same currents as mine; an artistic trial we run with voltages of inspiration but at times a fractured base.
Of anyone who left, then surged the need for me to gather all your leftover pieces because they're the last scraps that persuaded me to continue writing not long before this post. You somehow brought out a forgotten denomination of my better parts.
I cannot recall of anyone else who has done this but you.
In my mind, time with you has ascribed to it the same effect as always. I like how it has not changed. We rediscover our similarities and refresh the idea that the sky isn't that far. Then we wear the thought where ever we go. Until our next time, we expose the rips or alterations of its seams.
The last night I saw you, you hesitated, voice shaking as you read the words from your journal out loud despite encouragement from cold glasses of white wine. You didn't want to sit while you read, so we watch you standing near the soft gold glow and the silence.
We try to get you to say something.
I secretly hope you say more.
We try to pull you out of the shadows.
I suddenly see myself in the dark.
And I hope you know that it meant something to me. I hope you know that it wasn't just a spectacle, because your writings are eager with power. And writing is the place where my means of safeness has slept uninterruptedly, but where your emotions have drifted exponentially.
I wish you had not left back to Santa Cruz.
I wish one of my better parts had not left back to Santa Cruz.
But you re-introduced it to me in the limits of a bleak suburban coordinate. Did you know you carved out unrecognized roads from a map I know too well?
We romanticize possibility and sentimentalize creativity.
Scorpios are of a particular brand of humanity.
And in between all our temporal gaps,
it's never the last time I feel like your friend.