Bent Words

Bent Words

October 15, 2010


I miss you.

I miss you being here. Right here.

How long it's been since last we spoke (well, just over a year, technically, but I can hardly count the Open House as talking -- more like me sputtering out a few brief and nervous syllables and *poof* it was over)... It's been awhile. Since then you've forged a new path and you're jiving to your own drum. Which is fine. You're way over there and I'm way over here.

Still, despite all that distance, you somehow managed to drop by every one in awhile.

Perhaps you were curious or just checking in. Perhaps you missed me, too, or just wanted to think about something -- anything -- else than that which you consumed with at that moment. Perhaps you were in search of a beer-through-the-nose laugh or a good memory. Perhaps you just couldn't help yourself. You just couldn't forget.

Whatever the reason, it made me happy. Really happy. Not just "Oh it's eighty degrees outside and zero humidity and my bike is all clean" kind of happy but "Hello, it's eighty degrees outside my oceanfront resort in Cancun and all I have to do today is order more Corona from this one spot on the beach where I just started a gambling game of gambling with the folks next to me which we dubbed 'Who's the tourist?' and I'm up a hundred bucks" kind of happy.

In other words, it was mostly good.

It made me want to write more and more often. It made me feel as though, despite our lacking conversation, I were sharing all these ups and downs with you -- someone who cared. It made me feel more connected, more interesting, more... real ('cause every once in awhile, ya know, I actually forget that I am). You made me want to make you (YOU) laugh. You made me want to to make you (yes, YOU) smile.

And maybe you didn't know this and maybe you did but I knew you were here. You had a very telling IP address, from your work. And I checked my stats everyday to see if you had dropped by. Perhaps I should have told you sooner (and I meant to, really, but each post I've promptly deleted). But I was scared to lose you. I was scared to let you in on my perfect secret. For it's all I had.

Until recently.

Somehow, it seems, you've moved on. You're not curious or interested or amused. I'm not happy about it but how can I be mad? I could never be mad.

I just miss you.

I just miss you being here.

And, selfishly, I wish you could not have found the door.

But no matter what, I'll still be here. Thinking about you as I write -- no matter what or whom I write about -- wondering if you're still checking in on me, turning the corner hoping I might be on the other side (if for nothing else than just to say hello), or slowly forgetting about me as the days go by.

Promise. Five times.

Written at 7:20 p.m.