We never said a real goodbye; you realize that? You’re not the type to need closure. That was always me. You’d tell me things don’t have neat endings. You can’t just move on, you’d say. Everything leaves a mark. I’d say I know, I know; it just would be nice, you know?
Nice, you’d say. “Nice” isn’t for you and me.
I used to count the days since we last touched. I don’t do that anymore. You made me feel like nothing else. God, nothing in the world makes me feel the way you did–open to the whole world with all my secrets bared to light and safe behind steel walls three feet thick at once. Strong. Like nothing could touch me. Nothing I couldn’t take but being without you. I miss you some days.
I think of you.
You told me I would always come back to you, and often as not I’d agree with you. Probably will, I’d say, but it’s the principle of the thing. You didn’t answer that; you didn’t have to. Sometimes I’d deny it, but I didn’t learn to not reply at all, until I did. I guess I did. I don’t remember the last time we spoke. I think of you. Maybe I’ll always think of you.
You touched parts of me that never should have seen the light of day. You knew me so fiercely. I wept from places I didn’t think tears could come, thicker than water, leaving stains I can’t wash out. You knew me, but you were never good for me. I think of you. Some winter nights I’ll walk the streets of our old haunts and feel your ghost over my shoulder.
I’ll step wrong on the ice.
Baby, when that happens, I’ll reach up and strike the wind chimes hanging from a bare branch and let the music follow me home. You’re with me. You’re the broken glass crunching under my heel on the corner of Minvera and Marquette, stuck to the wall with blue poster tack above my partner’s desk. I’ll be buried with you. You’re written on my skin. I think of you.
You made me feel like nothing else. I’ll never feel that way again. Thank god. Thank god I’ll never feel that way again.