It’s Been a Year


 It’s been a year.

There wasn’t much of you left to bury, so I just carried around your bits’ and pieces until they fell out of my pockets’ over the journey of everything to come after. And it hasn’t been very long, but I’ve traveled further than I thought I’d ever want to go.

That smell on the side of the mountain that filled our windows on the drive home– they’re wild onions.  I found them while hiking with another girl.  I picked some and tried to cook them but they tasted terrible.  Then I googled them and turns out they might be poisonous.   I think you would’ve applauded the effort.

They put a restaurant on the wharf where you wanted to build your plaza.  Someone else’s dream went into that space; but I suppose we’re all impermanent in that way.  When I think about buildings or beaches and the number of people to have enjoyed them I begin to feel very small.

I don’t miss you.

But there are still moments that hurt’ unexpectedly sometimes.  Like that play with the actors speaking in English-Chinese that was such a disaster, and how we couldn’t stop laughing afterwards.  A friend of mine saw the same play too… and it came up in conversation and it made me think of you.  Only for a flickering moment, but it was enough to dim the lights on an otherwise sparkling night.  I hope you never think of me.

You always had this long line of monkey-bar-boys, a safe ‘next rung’ to be clung to when we fell loose, but me… lately I’ve been feeling like I was in free fall when you let go– and I’ve finally hit the bottom.  With every girl I kissed and every moment of loneliness somehow knocking down the deep well of You’ that obstructed my view of the future.  I have loose stones and cracked slate of all the big dreams I thought we were building, but as of late’ I’m seeing that the shuffle of rubble is the best foundation for something concrete.  Just add an outpouring of opportunity and someone new to fill in all the gaps.

If you could see me now, I think you’d be impressed.

…You, in that Orange Dress.

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