Last month, I sat with brand new friends I’d somehow known forever. We drank wine and laughed about petty drama. I accidentally gave the pizza guy my number. Everyone howled. Trista asked what happened with you. I guess I never filled her in. Last she heard we were headed to delayed bliss. I took liberties, I guess. I jumped ahead.
I took your hand on my back to mean something. I took your eyes on my skin as a sign. Back where everyone thought we’d be again. Back where I hoped we would.
You don’t want to be my inspiration. I didn’t want you to be either. But here we are.
My last boyfriend loved St. Vincent. She was his celebrity crush. His hall pass. It was so charming. He didn’t say Gigi Hadid or Kylie Jenner. Not to say she isn’t stunning with her curls and sweet face. But she’s not the obvious choice. He always saw stuff I overlooked. It was lovely.
He wasn’t you though.
After breaking up, he pressed me for reasons. For reasons why it wouldn’t work. I tried to dance around it. I said, “It’s not right” and “Something’s missing”. You know, all the attempts at gently letting someone go. But he was persistent.
Finally, it came spilling out.
“I have known someone who felt like forever and this isn’t it.”
He cried. I cried. I am not proud of it.
St. Vincent released a new song called “New York” and all I can think of is flying by myself to see you. I was terrified of planes. Still am. But my love for you outweighed it. I sat there trembling for 5 hours. I sat there gripping the arm rest.
“New York isn’t New York without you, love.”
My mother said, “I always knew you’d find a way back to each other.”
I thought Mama always knew best?
You don’t want to be my inspiration. I’m sorry.
I guess neither of us got what we wanted.