I Wish I Loved Writing About You

Christina Boemio

I wish I could write something poetic about us. Something about the way your hair felt in between my fingers. Something about the way I kept your apologies tucked away like treasure. Something poetic. Something meaningful. Something that would provide rhyme to all of the reason I have strategically laid out over the years. But maybe this isn’t reasonable. Maybe it never has been. Maybe we all know that and just look at things like bartenders, lighting, surprise messages, and gin and tonics to divert us away from the obvious. Maybe maybe maybe. I wish I could write something searchable about us. I wish I could make us last longer online than we did in real life. I wish there was more than hazy lake jumps, speeding down highways, and that boathouse to this story. If there’s something findable by a stranger, that means it meant something right? Or does me deciding that it meant something mean enough? Is that enough? Is it ever? I wish I could write something that made sense about us. Something definite. Something relatable. Something more than wishes or dumb metaphors involving fire season or pieces that give off the impression I think I’m way more artistic than I actually do. Maybe if there was something out there that could cleanly say, “This is how I felt. This is how it felt.” I wouldn’t have so many maybes. Maybe maybe maybe. I wish I wasn’t embarrassed to write about us. I wish it didn’t make me uncomfortable that you could see it. That she could see it. That anyone could see it. I walk a very good walk, but there’s always going to be uncharted waters when it comes to you and me. It’s been summer after summer without you and  I still feel uncertain. I think I always will. I wish I loved writing about you. I wish it felt natural and easy and right. I wish it didn’t feel dirty, like something I’m not supposed to want to do. I wish I wasn’t still afraid of my own feelings and could take a note from Ari and Chrissy and even the girl in whatever house you live in now and not feel like they were something inconvenient. But that’s probably why I’m writing this, isn’t it? Probably. Likely. Maybe.

Maybe maybe maybe…TC mark

Kendra Syrdal

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