So Real

I was in the terminal, waiting for my flight, fighting back tears that I would have to revert back to a reality where I didn’t see you on a daily basis. My heart missed you, my mind missed you, my body missed you. I figured this trip would be closure for me, that I could see first hand you were no longer interested, had moved on, entered a relationship with another person and I could try to learn to live with the harsh truth I was delusional in ever thinking you thought of me in such a deep, romantic way. If anything, it confirmed that there was something more than just a good friendship between us, that you may actually be in love with me. The letter I wrote to you before you departed California didn’t go over your head—you understood the thinly veiled meaning behind every carefully crafted word and embraced it rather than shied away from the underlining feelings of what I wanted to say but couldn’t say to your face. Maybe, just maybe, your feelings were the same as mine, finding ourselves stuck in a weird game of chicken, on a rollercoaster, with no end in site and no winner to put a stop to the game.

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We walked around ‘til the moon got full like a plate/And the wind blew an invocation and I fell asleep at the gate…

I replayed the night back in my head. I still do when I miss you, which is every day. I remember every time you touched me—when we were in the bar together, lightly touching the small of my back to alert me about the DJ in the bar that made my body quiver with anticipation, when you took my head and turned it to the object you wanted me to look at, which was a coffee pot with the word “GUATEMALA” etched on it, when we touched hands, our fingers briefly interlocking, making my heart beat out of my chest harder than a Timpani at a high school band recital.

The unexpected sexually tense moment that involved a map of the United States tacked on to your wall, with every route you have ever driven cross-country, will forever be imprinted in my memory. Standing so close to you, noticing you looking at me with dreamy eyes, saying my name over and over again with such excitement and vigor as you wildly gestured how the only way to see the country is to drive through it, I didn’t want you to stop saying my name. I briefly thought what you would sound like saying my name as I fucked your brains out—I’m sure I’d enjoy it all the same.

In that moment, as I kept touching your chest, saying your name as much as I could in my sweetest tone, I thought about making a move but I stopped myself. Or rather my heart stopped me. In that moment when there was an opening, I managed to scare myself. Everything felt real. I never thought of myself as someone who gets frightened of falling in love. It never happened before, making me question if I really was in love with the men of my past or if I was just deep in lust? I had never been so scared in my life.

I love you, but I’m afraid to love you…

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The next morning, tired, dehydrated, and hungover, I played Jeff Buckley’s “So Real” on repeat, my head in the clouds, feeling closer to you than I had in over a year. The rest of the trip played out with a certain thickness in the air. It always felt like one of us wanted to say something, make a gesture, do anything but stopped ourselves from ever pursuing. It leaves me to wonder how often you think about me, how much you miss me, if you ever long for my body because you love my soul. It left me with more unanswered questions than desired. In some sick, masochistic way, I love this feeling as much as I hate it.

Knowing you, I’m sure you feel the same way.