melephant

I wrote this long thing a bit ago with the intention of making you cry. To exploit you. To bring up the dead. To remember the last night we spent in bed together, talking about the future. our future. Really. Just our arms touching. He said, "We've had enough sex for now. Let's talk, tonight." And I felt so calm then. How would it have been different if we would have known he would die the next day?
I never ask why. My mama does. She also says, "I bet you'll never fall in love again" and "It's amazing his parents don't blame you for what happened." But I don't hold it against her. She's grieving, too, and these are the harsh sentiments of someone who feels God owes us more than this. The sentiments of a woman whose sister was shot in the face for no reason at all just five years ago. She's looking for words to give it all meaning. I don't try to do things like that.
I have his words, though. His words are precious to me. A 3 page list of things he wanted to talk to me about and show me and ask me. His brother gave it to me at the funeral. His journal included fantasies of us growing old together. Taking in art shows as wrinkled old bags. That sort of thing. I'm just going to trail off now and think about other things. Thanks for listening.