When I can’t sleep at night
Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I beat myself up with these memories of really perfect moments and how strange they felt. And then I take those perfect moments, and I compare the feeling in my guts with the way the inevitable strange little fuck ups and glitches in those moments felt. Because it was those things that seemed so insignificant that later expanded and grew and finally became bigger than the perfect moment, encompassed it, and made an uncross-able impasse between us and them.
-I remember the wedding that you and I were both invited to, and how you thought I didn’t care about you anymore and I thought you didn’t care about me. And how we avoided each other, but had to sit next to each other at the reception. I remember how I finally sucked it up and asked if you wanted to dance, and you surprised the hell out of me because you did. I remember my guts just twirling as we danced, and you had your head on mine and sometimes your nose touched mine. And I remember how we left and even though you were supposed to stay with your friends, we sat in the parking lot until sobered up and went to my place.
And the I remember when I took you back the next morning, I remember how strange the goodbye was with your friends watching, and how they didn’t feel like my friends anymore.
-I remember how that first week we started dating, you took me to your father’s hunting cabin and how crazy it was that we spent three days with just each other and never got bored. I remember we made these huge pots of coffee and sat and talked on the back porch for hours and I remember that right then I wanted to marry you, and you wanted to marry me. I remember before we left, you had that picture of me and pointed “look it’s you, I love you” without realizing it.
And then I remember the second night, how deeply embarrassed I was when you pulled me up from the position I was in because you weren’t ready to ‘do that’ and my god, I was.
-I remember how you made Polaroid pictures of the coffee you drank well before I woke up, and then got the pot ready for me and left everything there, with a note. How glad I was that you had left before you saw what I looked like in the mornings and the rituals I went through to not look that way before class.
- I remember standing in your kitchen, cutting green peppers when you can up behind me, hands on my hips and swayed. And how it felt like home, and how I worried that you’d hate the meal.
I remember all of these ‘you’s - And how those things got bigger and bigger and bigger. How I couldn’t tell you what I was really feeling. Because you couldn’t listen, because I was afraid you would hate me, because I was afraid you wouldn’t understand, because I was afraid I was starting to stop caring again. And I remember that there was always a time where I trusted you and myself.
And what I wish most of the time is that I could turn over in bed and talk to you about these little things. And what they meant. And why we did them.
And even if I couldn’t find you beside me, maybe I could just call you. I wouldn’t mind if you went on with your life after that, because I’ll be honest - those little glitches never stopped growing and they swallowed what we both felt whole. I don’t think we should rewind, but there are all these inside jokes and wonderful memories and strange ways of saying things that me, and you, and you, and you, and you share.
And all I’d really like now is just to be honest.
