Expat


Fading. You are all fading. Memory is as fickle as a hungry cat. I’ve been gone too long and sometimes I wonder if I’m a ghost. You remember me fondly and remember the good times; you get sad when you miss me, but accept I’m in a better place.

I lie on the wind-swept grass trying not to get pulled into the clouds, but how long can I keep from becoming Walt’s eye balls, then POOF—Nothing. We laugh to test that our voices are still there, throats calling out a tune of Testing1-2-3, ha-ha-ha! The return is nearly impossibly but utterly necessary.

Fading. I am all but fading. I’ve turned into electric waves waggling in the air, reaching for a destination through time. A time where wine painted my teeth and a cigarette rested like the candle on a birthday cake just waiting to get wished on. A time where bodies rubbed around to a single beat in a crowded room and we laughed, exhausted but not able to stop. A time where my love was given naïvely free and trust was a right, not a righteous privilege.

I dreamt that I still held your hand—that our voices weren’t drowned by the Atlantic Ocean. Your hug was infinite and the smell of your breath was sweet honey and the earth that grew the cocoa beans.

I learned the beauty others saw—the stepping stone to learning to see it on your own. I learned of time and space through your lips. How? How when yours touched mine, time was not back and forth, but instead it wrapped around us, tighter and tighter. How even when mine touched yours, we would never close the distance between us. No, could never break through the thin membrane.

Fading. I would give anything to fade. Maybe then the pain would dull and each memory of your smile would not make me shatter. Like an infant ripping through the canal of birth, my insides scream. Terrified. Alone. Yes, that’s what I need. Rebirth. Yes.

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