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This is not a story about love, or loss, or longing. None of those "L" words. In fact if you asked me, I'd have to tell you that this is a story about pavement. I, of course, would be lying.
I'd like to blame it on the pavement. I'd like to say that the reason we are so distant is the distance from there to here, but it isn't. I used to think that we were made for each other, as though God had plucked two stars from the sky, blew them into human form, and said in a gentle grandpa voice, "Here you go kids. Find each other." There is no such grandpa.
It is this delusion that has brought me to this point, where I think about you and allow myself to fixate on the feeling I had on the one occasion we kissed. I tell myself I've measured every inch of your skin, that I've memorized the placement of colors in your eyes. Not surprisingly, I pull this image from my memory and give it my own attributes. You look like me in my daydreams of you. It's the only face I've memorized enough to use.
I have to admit that I don't remember what you smell like, or exactly how tall you are, or why it upset me so when you wouldn't hold my hand. I don't remember the insignia on your windbreaker or the color of your cheeks when you got too warm but I do remember this: I remember thinking, "Hold onto this. You'll need it later." Stupidly my brain did not oblige.
I want so much to miss you for the right reasons, to believe that you love me and that we're made for each other and that a grave injustice has been done that we are apart. But the truth of all this is that you were no more made for me than anything else I've found. I miss you because I have nothing else to miss.
The Postal Service has a terrific song called "Such Great Heights," remade also terrifically by Iron and Wine. You should hear both.
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