subject line: to the lost boy



I had sushi with a friend last night at a place downtown. I gathered that it was the sort of place where you could eat sushi with your hands without judgment. I partially spilled a saketini down one of my $60 blouses. We would have been a pair. You, eating sushi with your hands. And me, with a saketini dripping down my blouse. I miss you.

A Whitney Houston song popped up on my Spotify. I thought of our last night together, drinking Nightmare Fuel and dancing in our socks in your kitchen. I need to buy some Nightmare Fuel.

This morning, I was wishing that I had someone to make me breakfast, like you did on our last morning together. I don’t think I told you, but very few, if any, men have ever cooked for me. I loved sitting on the counter and watching you cook. I still haven’t decided on my last meal yet, but I know it will be a buffet of all of my favorite foods. And there will be pizza.

Today is snowy and cold. It reminds me of our second date, when you took me to get pho in the strip mall by your place. With the Asian version of American Idol on in the background and the enormous fish tank. And the phantom car alarm going off. When you first told me that you are bad with chopsticks, and that you eat sushi with your hands. Still missing you.

I told you that I refuse to be your option. And that’s what I would be to you at this moment in time, just an option. But after we talked and danced and laughed on our last night together, my resolve faltered. I’ve felt like an option many times before: with my father, my step-father, countless boys in between. But I reminded myself that I could never be satisfied as your option. I want to be your everything. Until I can be your everything, I have to be your nothing. I hope we meet again someday, when you are ready for everything.