I am going to buy a house that you will never live in.
You lived with me in 2 or 3 apartments, for weeks or months at a time while you were putting the pieces of your life in order and I never felt at ease with anyone else in my space. Only you, baby.
One of the reasons I am moving to a town that I have never lived in, one that has never cradled me while I cried, is because you were the only one I ever let into my home - every week, you were here.
If I move I can make a space for myself that you have never touched - and as much as I want to hold on to the things that remind me of you I can’t be haunted like that forever. You are already in my head and my heart…nevermind my couch, that pho restaurant we went to where we saw a little dog dressed up in baby’s jeans, the chocolate bar where we ate tiramasu, the club we got screamingly drunk at, the french restaurant we huddled in while the snow came down and we drank huge mugs of chocolate chaud, your old apartment building where you made me a mermaid, all these little pieces of you scattered around and in my home.
It’s too much and not enough. It’s half of a shrine, a memorial put together by the city that misses you but has no voice that is not restaurants, streets, graffiti, the debris that we leave behind when we think no one is looking.
Miss you, baby