on time

It's a Thursday in 2011. I'm gonna be late for work but I don't really care. I'm finally going to meet you. You emerge from the fog and into my life. You take my breath away. We have dinner and then coffee and then you walk me to my cab. I had a lovely evening, I said when what I meant was you look like the man I imagined I'd be with for the rest of my life.

It's a Friday in 2012. They say the world is ending in a few months and though I'm not a prayerful person, last night I got down on my knees and asked for a little more time with you. You tell me you're off work early and you could spend the weekend with me. You arrive shortly after dinner, melted strawberry sundaes in your hands, and you tell me you've missed me like the sea misses the shore. Like the breeze kisses bed sheets swaying, like the sunlight misses the sunburnt skin on my nape. Your backpack is bursting with clothes, the first few rays of the rest of our lives. I run to you, my heart fevered with a silent wish. I know you said you can only stay till Sunday but you know, you can stay here forever. Like um, if you wanted to.

It's a Saturday in 2013. The world did not end. Perhaps my prayers were heard. You've traded in your backpacks for suitcases. I now awaken each morning to your light snores, your stubbled chin, your all too familiar scent. I wish I could lay back and enjoy the comfort of your arms but the voices came back last night. He's going to leave you, they said. You're not good enough for him. There's always going to be someone wiser, someone younger, someone who's just a few notches above kind. I hold on to you, feel your breath on my cheek as I wait for the voices to fade away. This is a call to arms.

It's a Sunday in 2014. You leave early in the morning. I could feel your exit in my bones as you walked away. Where are you going? I wanted to know but there were no words, no answers for a calloused heart. It is nighttime. You emerge from the darkness. You set down your things and you hold me. Your backpack bursts open as it hits the ground. I count five shirts, three briefs, and a fresh pair of pants. You were going to leave me. What made you change your mind? You tell me about the bus, about how each mile it set between us felt like a knife in your gut. You tell me about how you ran from the terminal back to our street, how the front door practically flew when you swung it open. Your left cheek twitches as you tell me how each step on the staircase felt like bloody murder. There are no apologies where there are no sins. You hold me and it feels like you've truly come home. It feels like you've come home.

The sea teaches me love is a wish
not for safety but for destruction.
I am not ashamed to admit it:
I love you the way water loves.
Which is to say
I wish the world were through with you,
so you could return to me ravaged, upon this shore:
a shell held tight inside my palm.

Gift, 2
J. Neil C. Garcia

You still look like the man I imagined I'd be with for the rest of my life. But it's a Sunday and I'm not in love.

♫: Rachael Yamagata | Miles On a Car (2011)
Poem: Gift, 2

It's a Monday in 2064. I am a fossil, the last embers of a love that burned brightly. We’ve weathered the storms – all 6,396 I made myself – and I'm sorry. I can't always say it for I fear the taste will soon seem pale to my lips but from the deepest corners of this ashen heart, I loved you. I love you. I will always love you.