I met you on a Monday morning but saw you on a Sunday. You, standing by the baggage carousel, with your puffy blue jacket, absurdly insulating your california-boy-heads-east exposure. I didn’t really take note of you (you know that), except to see you again at the rental car checkout and again at the hotel.
In a moment so long ago that I crutch on memories, I can no longer remember the details of your stories, the intricacy of your expressions. But I know they sparked mine and aligned so well that they impressed upon me something lasting. I like the way you smell. The way you crouch when you lean over your desk, to scribble something not to be forgotten. The times when we drove through the snow, you distracting my novice navigating skills with your goofy rap-alongs to 95.5 KIIS FM. When I told you something outlandish (word vomit, admittedly) and you smiled crookedly, saying you felt the same.
I have hopes and dreams like the rest of them. And I don’t know if this is one that wisps away with the wind or more realistically, with time. But. But I do know it meant something. And it doesn’t have to mean much more. Because there are realities. And distance. And time.
Maybe in this moment you can read this and know. Maybe realize, if you haven’t already. That--that I am calling to you, in my side-stepping, arm-around-self way, to say that I want a chance. It doesn’t have to be forever. And we don’t have to echo the tales of fairytale splendor or e-harmony commercials. But we can hang on to each other, just for a little bit.
