It rolls into my inbox, my own fault. I have not changed the settings that tell the world to alert me to you being out there.
You are interviewed, photographed, recorded. I read, I look, I listen. I can’t *not* even though I wonder why, really.
I try to place these feelings I have.
It makes me smile, I am so proud of you. I am. Even after so long. I want to reach out and say ‘Well done beautiful, you deserve it’ and in a flight of fancy imagine dropping you a note to say so. I won’t, of course. But I hope you know.
I soften as you candidly admit that you were a nervous boy, timid and shy around others. That you still are.
I listen to your velvety voice and remind myself to take the sound of you off my ipod, which I thought I had done already, but which hasn’t stopped popping up persistently on shuffle, and still shocks me each time.
My heart leaps strangely when you say something that sounds like me, about kissing and clashing teeth, and how you like that best. In truth, I still expect you to be about me. I do. And even though I have let you go (I have, despite how it sounds), I expect it still. An homage hidden in your work, your words, I expect it and look for it and perhaps trick myself into seeing it. It is an arrogance, I know, but I know you also and how deep I am in you. I am not sure why it makes me feel like crying a little.
I look for hints of your happiness, I see some, and feel a gentle warmth and calm. I do hope you are happy. You like where you are living now better and I’m glad.
I look for references to your no-longer-new girlfriend and am sorry and happy when I see none. I almost want to see it and process how it feels. I would expect still a pang of something, and I feel like I want to put it up to the light to examine exactly what it is made up of. But I do want you to be petted and loved and kept safe.
I wonder a little what my face looks like in all of this (and I have stopped in the middle of you talking (to me…?)) to write this, because I wanted to get it on the page, raw and puzzling and predictable.
It is early, I haven’t eaten. I must do that. But first I had to confess out loud that I can’t *not* look for you, even if it is only sometimes now. And the maelstrom in finding you is still fascinating to me.