I Will Follow You Into the Dark

Taylor Swift's Speak Now and 1989, Death Cab for Cutie’s Kintsugi and Plans, and Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness are my favorite albums. But it has nothing to do with the lyrics to the songs or the stories they tell or their image in the tabloids or anything that people normally cite as reasons why their favorites are their favorites.

It’s quite silly, really. It’s not even a reason I can fully put into coherent English because words don’t do it justice.

Those albums are my favorite because of sitting in the Jeep in a slowly emptying parking lot after the Army Navy Football Game listening to “Cecilia and the Satellite” with your phone plugged into the radio and saying “Oh I love this song!”, and you agreeing with me. They’re my favorite because of how you put your arm around me at the line that said “Of all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you”, and pulled me in for a sentimental hug as “High Dive” came on; to this day, that’s still in my top five favorite songs ever. When I think of “Black and White Movies”, that hug turns into our foreheads touching, nose to nose, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife; then “Driving Through a Dream” becomes a kiss.

Those albums are my favorite because of how I never even noticed the transition from “Maps For the Getaway” into “No Room In Frame” because I was much too enthralled by your tongue in my mouth, your hand cradling the back of my head, and your whisper of “Should we move to the back seat?”

They’re my favorite because of how “You’ve Haunted Me All My Life” echoed in the background as you slipped my three hoodies (one of which was yours) and one t-shirt over my head, gently ducking below the headrests as we saw the brightness of headlights driving past on their way out of the parking lot. Then how you never once pressured me to move any further as “Hold No Guns” played. If I hear “Everything’s a Ceiling”, I can still feel you kneeling between my legs and explaining how even just a sensual touch can drive someone nuts if you aim for places with enough nerve endings; I can feel my head against the back passenger door handle and your hand holding mine as you gently kissed my hand and wrist to “Ingenue”.

“Enchanted” reminds me of the drive home, telling my grandmother that we were “waiting out the traffic” for a while and then “still caught some on 95” which made us a little later than I told her I would be home. “Wildest Dreams” was when I reminded you of your promise to sing something for me, and I can almost still hear it over the rush of the cars on either side of us. I liked it so much that we played it again as you pulled up in front of my house.

I don’t listen to any of this very much anymore, even though they're my favorites. Hearing those songs makes me think of that night, then six months later when I came over on my lunch break and you pushed me up against the wall with kisses up and down my neck before I could even say hello. The walks in the woods, the hotel rooms, the late-night video messages, the jar full of post-it notes with all the reasons I loved you.

Loved.

Because even though I Would (still) Follow You Into the Dark, we went out of Style.