I wanted to tell you a story about how, growing up, my house faced north. A story about how I was always facing the wrong way; all I could see from my bedroom window was an old fading lamp post that, through sheer curtains and glass and squinting eyes, looked like the moon. I wanted to tell you about how I spent most of my childhood pretending it was.
But I also wanted to tell you about that last night we spent in your bed. About how even when my back was turned I could always tell when you’d fallen asleep because of the way your body moved, because of a deeper breath. That night I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I can’t cook, that my scrambled eggs always come out dry. That maybe I cuss a lot, but that I have hundreds of beautiful words swimming inside me, bursting to get out. Words like “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll try,” and “Yes,” and “I love you.”
I wanted to tell you that you made nervous feel good and ice-cold fans feel warm, that you made me want to sprinkle tajín on your watermelon voice and kiss the lilac of your closing eyes. I wanted to say that I didn’t mind going slow, even if my roller coaster heart quivered from thinking too fast, that I didn’t mind your high lows and your low highs, because we could tread together through the middle lines.
But most of all, I wanted to tell you that I’d noticed your house faced east and that your window was the first to ever show me the moon. I wanted to tell you that maybe, that meant something. Maybe it didn’t. But then again, maybe it did.