ii. there is a space that only you can fill

***

I ask if you want to get a coffee. You ask what time, and where. Your neighborhood, naturally, and sometime later. I don't know. 

By now I've forgotten exactly what we need to talk about this time - you don't appreciate me, I don't give you enough space, you don't ask me how I'm doing, I can't leave well enough alone. We've gone for coffee

we've gone for coffee

we've gone for coffee a thousand times, gravely examining black liquid and lattes for some hint as to what it is we're doing here. Again and again and again. 

Slowly it occurs to me that you are not my best friend, not by a long shot. Months later, though, in New York, I'll refer to you as such, to strangers who can't wait to meet you when we arrive next August. I won't know why. 

***

Once more i've driven forty-five minutes during the height of traffic to see you, because you asked politely. We meet in the sweltering afternoon at a park near your house. I wear sunglasses I know will make you jealous, and boots I know will make me taller than you. I am not as passive as I would like to believe. 

We smoke marijuana from a hastily-rolled joint in the backseat of your car, where the silence is more than enough to illuminate our breathing patterns. I am paranoid. I press my head against the window, spinning gently. You repeat that you're tired, and I want to hit you. I didn't drive for three quarters of an hour, burning gas in idle traffic, to smoke half of a joint with you within fifteen minutes of my arrival. Besides, I won't drive this high. You realize this and decide we should take a walk. 

We do, but your lung capacity complains at even the most gradual incline. This age is meant to be your physical peak. 

We sit in the grass, and throw handfuls at one another. This is the hardest I've laughed with you in a long, long time. 

***

Me has hechado miserable. No te puedo perdonar, nunca, porque me has ignorado, insultado, y no puedo estar cerca de ti. Eres toxico. Eres malevolo. Me vas a destruir. Tengo que escapar de tus palabras, tus cartes, tus frases vacias. Tengo que escapar de la memoria de tus besos, tambien vacias, y tus maneras enganosos. No puedo estar cerca de ti. 

Pero si me llamas, cuando me llamas, ya se que voy a contestar, cada vez. Y por eso, te odio. 

***

I have to stop writing about you. But to stop writing about you i have to stop thinking about you. I haven't seen you in a week. You don't know that I'm actually upset with you. You think we need to "debrief" about new york, like we're soldiers - comrades. We hardly know each other. You've begun seeing the dormouse again, and I hope the two of you are happy, talking about nothing and touching vacantly. I hope you've saved all of the heavy, cobwebbed underbelly of your consciously repressed self just for me. I am your landfill. I am your landfill. 

I have to stop writing about you. 

***

You kiss me on the cheek, and it feels like an gesture of gratitude. Thank you for coming. Thank you for not saying what you wanted to say. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for the cigarettes. I don't smile at you anymore - everything feels heavier. Cloudier. We have baggage. 

I wouldn't have it any other way, i realize later, as i lie supine on an unmade bed.