Coordinates of connection

I wish people could be natural phenomena. You wouldn’t be something merciful or ordinary. You’re like the auroras, but dangerous. You’d be volcanic lightning, a monsoon, a supernova. Something catastrophic. Something the world would remember after it’s done shaking. I’d like to be an event horizon, strong enough to pull your whole universe inward. Keen enough to draw the longitudes and latitudes of wherever you are into the gravity well of my torso. Adept enough to reel in your tributaries, your inlets, your secret coastlines and hidden depths, until every map you’ve ever followed ended at the core of me.

I remember loving you more clearly than I do my childhood. Sure, there's a recency bias, but I'd bet the farm you've shaped me more than anything else ever has. Before you, the world hardened me: my parents tried with what they knew, toleration posed itself as a marriage, affection was just something seen in movies, nobody strived for anything, comfort appeared like living, this straightjacket of a city disguised itself as a blanket.

Consequently, I mistook becoming bulletproof for acclimation. I had chinks in my armor though. I left some weak spots exposed on purpose. Plainly, I was desperate to soften, or bend, to life, to somebody. So it's no surprise that when I fell for you, you turned me into Play-Doh. You transformed me, shaped me into a dreamer, a believer, a fighter, a lover. After you, I showed my teeth to the world in the form of a smile instead of a snarl.

I remember the coordinates of us, in every place we've ever been. I guide my life by my love for you, the ever-present glow of your North Star. You live in my heart, my hunger, and my habits. Every day we've ever spent together and every laugh we've shared is marked on an invisible map that I keep tucked away inside my chest. It's made of muslin, so it can withstand the elements and time, but I've folded and unfolded it countless times, the creases are starting to show some wear. I'd only ever be able to trust it with your gentle hands. But if I had to, I could guide you through it with my eyes closed: the only double date I'd ever been on, our secret ice cream flavor in a private theater, the inevitable verbal geyser of "I'm in love with you" on the floodlit dock, the lookout on Mulholland, fruity tea in Calabasas, how you pulverized me at pinball in Burbank, the final park bench where we leaned into each other wishing we were anchors.

It’s been ages since you moved away, years since I last saw you. The thought alone can bring tears to my eyes in seconds. If I were ever a method actor, that’s the place I’d go to summon a scene. I haven't quite forgiven you for it, nor myself. I think that's the hardest part. I wonder if one percent of you wishes you never left, or if one hundred percent of you wishes I would. The blades of grass whisper your name in every step I take, not in agony but as a nudge. I’m admittedly delusional. Sometimes I think the moon glows to tell me you’re still waiting for me, the way I'm waiting for you. A morning not beside you is a reminder I don't have my shit together. A glance in the mirror is a staunch refresher that I'm flawed beyond measure. A fresh shave or a new hairstyle cannot hide my emptiness, the spiritual chasm that only expands with the hours.

Distance is an odd concept. It's very matter of fact, but empty. It measures miles but not meaning. You're so far away, but if someone were to ask me where you lived, I'd point to the left of my sternum. I'd ignore that your address is practically unknown to me. I've dialed your number and ended the call before I started it a million times. I want you to know certain things: that I’m irretrievably in love with you, that I think your voice could revive me when I want to drown, that you would be my one call if the plane was doing down, that I wish I could blink you in front of me, that I've sabotaged myself over and over because I don't know what I'd do if I no longer had the hope of being with you.

I’d unlearn everything I know if it meant getting back to you. I love to write, but I’d forget the alphabet if it meant making space for you. I’d deprive myself of every chance at happiness if it meant guaranteeing yours. I’d abandon what was right if it meant you never left.