still waiting

last night, I dreamt of jorge for the first time in over a year. I started awake before dawn and frantically tried to fall asleep again to chase him back to that ephemeral plane, and only succeeded in riling myself up beyond any shadow of an unconscious possibility. the dream was astonishingly vivid, two years seeming to reduce to a blip on a radar, suddenly my senses filled up with him like a hot air balloon, and I found myself bombarded by the simplest idiosyncrasies that I used to take for granted.

I wonder sometimes if I'll ever love as fiercely, as unconditionally, as purely and recklessly as with my first love. we were a force, and we were unstoppable. I still pore over the last night I saw him, the sharp white lines, bottomless drinks, seedy bars, mist underneath street lamps, and tear stained faces smearing in an alleyway in the tenderloin. when he left me there, I'd thrown my arms around his neck and squeezed my eyes shut tight, praying for a miracle, even a small one, a changed mind. I had no idea.

our friend passed us and flippantly asked why we were embracing as if we'd never see each other again. he told her to stop being so dramatic.

during the wake, I called aaron from a bathroom floor, mopping up my torrent of tears with a black skirt, holding my finger over a lit candle to make sure I could still feel. my skin bubbled. my voice was muffled and childlike, slow and cracking like an old recording, foreign even to myself. terrifyingly numb, I asked him, "how am I ever going to get through this?", and he'd said, "honestly, kid? you'll wake up every morning and lie to yourself. you will tell yourself you are alright. and one day, you'll wake up, and it will be true."