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I put my car in park.

“Can I help you with anything?” I ask as you gather your bags… your to-go box… your phone… your drink… your coat…

“No, I can do it,” you say. “Thanks, though.”

And I know that you can do it. I know you aren’t weak, I know you’ve carried the weight alone before. But I know that my hands are here to catch the overflow. I know that when you hand me your bag or your phone or your drink to guard, it feels like a blessing. I know that as long as I keep saying words to you, the day hasn’t ended, and you stay here with me. And I’m not ready for the day to end yet, so I roll up my sleeves and reach into the deepest part of my soul, the part of it that soaks you in, and I tear a piece out and I offer it to you. I’ll carry your things, or I’ll dig your car out of the driveway, or I’ll wait at the corner to make sure you make it inside safely, because pieces of my soul are with you. And it’s okay that you don’t want it, but I want you to know that it’s there.

I want you to know that I’m here, and as long as I’m saying words to you, then the day isn’t over, yet. And you’re here, too. And I want to tell you that.

I want to tell you every last bit of it.

But I don’t. I can’t.

“No problem,” I say.

I love you, anyway.

And it flies over your head. But I’ll keep reaching into my soul and tearing off little pieces to offer to you,

and I’ll leave each little piece at the end of your driveway.

It’s there in case you want it.

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You smile and wave me over.

The seat is just big enough for the both of us.

You pat the space beside yourself. I sit.

Your head leans and finds its rightful place.

My shoulder.

Rest upon me.

Let me hold your weight.

I lean into you.

Your elbow presses into my side.

I don’t mind it.

Relax for me.

Rest upon me.

For a moment we are still.

We are sweet.

We are nothing less than us entirely.

I wake to your absence.

The weight upon my shoulder and the jab in my side persists.

My fever persists.

Rest upon me, for it is my medicine.

Rest upon me so I might become well.

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Spiral.

Spiral, squabble, and fall.

A young man who knows it all.

A young girl who cares no bit.

Unto each other: no better fit.

Spiral.

Spiral, squabble, and fall.

One loose tongue can end us all.

Hark a confession of bitter mistake.

One bumbling fool, for Heavens’ sake.

Spiral.

Spiral, squabble, and fall.

Lord only knows, was it real at all ?

So pretty a face with tone deaf name.

Nigh the end of a pointless game.

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Every night, before I go to sleep, I press a penny a kiss.

You once held it in your hands and I know that the essence of you lingers there, somewhere between the copper and me.

It’s a prayer.

It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to God.

It’s you.

I do it every night. It doesn’t matter if I just saw you or if it’s been weeks without you. Every night, I kiss the penny you gave me. I imagine your fingertips. The palm of your hand. The handful of coins resting in your pocket.

I picture you.

And in that moment you are God.

That is what I’m kissing.

That is what I’m praying for.

I couldn’t dare to rest a single night without your grace upon my lips.

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Sometimes at night, my room gets too quiet, and I open my eyes. I find that I’m back in our childhood home and you’re in the basement playing your guitar. I know I can run to you whenever I want. The world hasn’t broken us, yet. You haven’t been shipped off to war. I don’t know what death smells like. Can we ever go back to that ?

Bubby, can you hear me ?

I can’t sleep, anymore.

Can you play me one more song ?

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I hope you know that when I send you photos and videos of different, beautiful places around the world, it’s not only because I want to go there. It’s not only because I want to go there with you.

It’s because when I see something so beautiful, or imagine something so freeing, I can’t help but think of you.

All the pines in Washington and the snowcapped mountains in Nepal, to the grassy cliffs of Ireland and sandy beaches of La Romana… all the most beautiful places in the world; My love, it all looks like you.

Every last piece of it.

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The Night Watch

A broken man’s take on being loved by a night owl.

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I don’t feel real anymore. My concept of self melts away when there is no task for me to do. Once my list has been crossed out, I sit here, forever on standby. I wonder when the next thing is going to happen. When the next catastrophe will come. When I have to put myself aside and handle the ugly truths of the world.

I only exist when someone is looking at me.

It’s 2 am. I’m awake. I never sleep anymore. Not after the life I’ve lived. Not after the shit I’ve dealt with. It’s lonesome at this time of night. My loved ones sleep peacefully, I keep watch. That’s the way it has to be. But you…

You’re awake, too.

My phone buzzes. You sent me a video about some actor you like. Then again, a cat video. Another time, some meme I don’t really get. You have to explain it to me. You say it’s stupid, but I’m smiling now that I understand it.

You can’t see me, but I’m smiling.

You can’t see me, but you thought of me.

You thought of me ?

You thought of me.

It’s 2 am. You thought of me. You sent me a video. You sent me two more. You can’t see me ?

You’re thinking about me.

It’s 2 am. You’re in your bed, across town. It takes me twenty minutes to get there. Thirty if I go the long way. I have multiple routes planned. I know each way I could get to you if I had to. If you needed me. If it’s raining, or if there’s traffic, or if a road is closed. It’s 2 am and you’re twenty minutes away, and you’re laying in your bed and you’re thinking about me.

And you still can’t see me.

There’s parts in my brain which hold information I cannot share. It holds the final moments of strangers. It holds intimate knowledge of the comings of death. It holds a machine that calculates and analyzes every room it enters. A machine that analyzes every person it meets, determining flags and signals of something wrong. There’s a part of my brain that holds you. It’s the only part that makes me feel anything good. You’re good. You’re so good, and I’m addicted to you. I think about you, always.

My phone buzzes again.

There’s a part of your brain that holds me.

You can’t see me, but I’m real to you.

You can’t see me, but I exist.

You’re sending me videos.

You’re thinking about me.

God, you’re thinking about me.

It’s 2 am and I’m awake. You’re awake, too. You’re twenty minutes away. You’re laying in your bed. My phone is buzzing. You’re sending me videos. You’re thinking about me. You can’t see me.

You can’t see me, but I’m real, and I’m smiling.

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there is something uniquely painful in the act of befriending someone who hurt you deeply in the past.

you were young and i was younger and we both came from tarnished places. you excited me. i challenged you. we were both young and broken. it was a perfect storm.

we’re becoming friends again and your name falls off my tongue like it hasn’t been a lifetime since we last spoke. we’re older now, and we’re smarter, and we aren’t broken anymore.

i don’t blame you anymore.

you didn’t mean to do it, and i know that. i understand. i forgive you.

but at the same time, no amount of friendship or forgiveness can undo what you did to me. no amount of laughter or joking can make the pain go away.

you hurt me. i need you to know that.

i need you to see that.

it wasn’t your fault, you were just a kid, but i was a kid, too, and i didn’t deserve what you did to me.

i am not willing to try again with you, but i will be your friend. i will hear your sorrows and your joys and your concerns and delights. i will listen to you and i will know you again, but i will not give myself to you.

i forgive you, but you cannot have me back. not like that. not now, not ever.

i love you and i hate you and i forgive you all the same.

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missing that bastard, lestat de lyingcunt or whatever his name is

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photography by Nona Limmen

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everyone,, shut the fuck up. he’s shoppig

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