This evening Kalamazoo entertains a notion and delivers in torrents. I watch in awe from my perch at these wide windows and experience a deep and satisfying pang of nostalgia for something that hasn't happened yet, that is fated to happen sometime, somewhere -- with you, ideally -- or may never happen but is still lovely to contemplate anyway. And for the first time in my stint within these clinic walls I don't mind if time slows down, if dawn takes a bit longer to arrive than days previous.
This is now how I think of you:
Stormy weather that offers more than a hint of savagery.
A genuinely warm welcome to a surprise appearance.
Haunting melodies in an empty pool.
Lengthy late-night IMs filled with promise (but never any promises).
A tuxedo cat suddenly petitioning for the very affections you declined.
A spontaneous yet fleeting interest in me in the space between seemingly a million moving farewells and exactly one hundred and four blood draws.
A grand exodus to Gotham, to commotion and close friendships, to bright lights and fifth-floor walk-ups, to exhausting yet fruitful rehearsals and an enviable future where your talents will be much lauded -- and rightfully so.
A meandering drive to all points west, to the loneliest stretch of highway and the smell of sagebrush, through meteor showers in the high desert and ominous fog that sweeps in from the Pacific, to finding a sense of belonging in the frigid depths of the bluest lake as well as in the eager embrace of junkyard scholars who would only think to celebrate -- never chide -- intense feelings and hard pursuits -- and rightfully so.
(Jesus, we can't even seem to head in the same direction, let alone cross paths.)
I don't care for squandered opportunities, or passing fancies, or derechos that never live up to their full potential because we couldn't make the time to fully appreciate their fury. There's already too many excuses to let things fall to the wayside, and as it stands they probably will. No matter what I might offer, you will graciously smile and nod and likely never give it a second thought. Meanwhile, every time there's a downpour, I'll wonder where you might be. When this fever dream hustle of a summer passes and our routines reestablish themselves, I'll wonder if you'll make an effort to keep in touch.
I'll wonder if we'll ever get to a point where you'll call me in the middle of the night because you're lonely on the road and know I'm the only one still awake, or because for the first time ever you want to hear my voice, and the enthusiasm in it when I see who's ringing me at whatever ungodly hour it might be.
And I know, Turnip. I know how such talk makes you anxious. But, please, don't be. This is only a reverie -- my reverie -- and it's about all I have seeing as you're not here and likely won't be anytime soon. Or maybe ever.
But how I wish you were here.
On a night like this where the rain comes down in buckets and we both have nowhere to really be, I wish you were here. Not to pin you down and keep you forever. Not to twist you up in my desires and steal your heart. Not to sway you to be wholly at peace with my unbridled admiration and then demand that you match my fervor.
I wish you were here. That's all.
I can give you a million reasons why this isn't such a bad thing, but I'd much prefer that you come to this conclusion on your own. Someday, somewhere farther down the road. Or maybe never.
Damnit, Turnip. Just get here when you can.