The Eight of March

There are many things I couldn't tell you: I din’t like the way you wrapped your towel around your body, the way your voice changed when you were about to say something serious, your eyes when you saw in my eyes I was upset with you.

Last summer when we walked the streets for hours proclaiming our happiness, listening to the noise from the side road and yet still hearing each other breathe, we had no idea how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

If I had to choose one moment in time to relive over and over again, I’d choose the eight of March when I first met you;

I'd choose any day from last June, when the only thing I was worried about was if you'd wear that dress I really liked.

You told me once how after we first met you'd wake up every night and eat

ice cream, too nervous to see me again, too excited not to. I was going to go back to California despite of what you might have said and you knew that but you kept talking: a flood of talk.

Leaving,

without ever confessing to you that the day you cooked for me for the first time I was as nervous as you:

I remember seeing your back in the kitchen, chopping salad, drinking wine and searing tuna; I came over and wrapped my arms around you, wondering what life might be like if I stayed.

Driving,

down the west side with this image of you at home in your white satin dress, your first sip of mezcal without me there.

You hope that our first summer together wouldn’t be that special anymore because we’ll spend the rest of our summers together, you look at yourself in the mirror, you brush your hair before going to bed and you dream.

We are unaware of what time does to us and how much of it we’ve got left until we had become inconsolable – we follow strict plans and big dreams

we forget that we are allowed to go off the radar-

In capsized boats, gold river lit, I turn around and say:

‘Honey, I’m coming back.’