subject line: "A coma might feel better than this" - Dallas

 

Atlanta

I’m sitting here eating left-over birthday cake out of the box. It was really good four days ago, not bad two days ago. But now it’s just stale. And I keep standing over the box eating it with a 5-day-old fork because I don’t know what else to do. I just want to eat stale cake. Maybe because it reminds me of the 2nd. That was the last day you held me. The last day you said, “what kind do you want?” when deciding which carton of ice cream would come along for the ride. The last day you took two spoons out of the drawer and said “let’s go”. The last time you opened my door and sat me in your passenger seat and took me to see the city. The last day you asked if I wanted to go back or “just come home”. The last day I felt at home. The last day you kissed me. And maybe the first day you loved me.

We drove to see the city. But when we got there, the fog had come in. Not even a silhouette stood beyond the I-75 street lights. We knew it was beautiful, we had seen it before. But we were too late. Too late to enjoy what we knew was there…like it wasn’t ever there to begin with. Seemed fitting really…I knew it was beautiful-but you were too late. And now I’m still looking for the city in us and it’s just gone.

I haven’t wanted to write about this. I probably shouldn’t be. You were the first one after him that I had written about. And maybe I’m just superstitious, but I was hoping with everything in me that my writing of you would make you real-permanent.

I wanted to be a memoir writer. Instead I’ve got eight chapters of mediocre fiction here with no resolution. And nobody wants a shitty book like that.