And here I sit. Two weeks after he moved across the country.
Sitting in his clothes, breathing in his cologne.
Listening to Bright Eyes because I am far too melancholy to listen to his favourite Madonna cd.
I wanted to be him
I wanted to be with him.
And I was so overwhelmed by the emotions I felt towards him, I couldn't even tell him I was a FTM.
He would have accepted me. I used to joke and call him my gay guru. He accepted everyone, loved everyone.
I only heard him say something hateful about a person once, and only because the guy had made his life hell for being gay.
Our friends used to joke and ask if we had moved in with each other yet, because it might have saved him some money on gas.
Our friendship was all about driving, late night phone calls, barbeque pringles, and an unmeasurable amount of trust. And love.
I feel stupid, talking about him as though he were dead. But in a way, I almost feel as though he is. He's three time zones away, making a life for himself, seperate from me. I call and have nothing to say. He says nothing either. Its as though the distance has shoved itself inbetween us in every way imaginable.
So here I sit.
In his favourite sweatshirt I refused to give back.
Smelling his cologne I bought ages ago so I could smell it on my pillow as I slept at night, because his smell does not linger on my belongings as long as I wish it would.
I wished I'd kissed him just one more time, on the cheek as he grimaced and pulled away like an insolent little boy. I wish I'd given him more money for gas to show him how much I appreciated him.
I wish this rift between us would repair itself.
Otherwise, we won't last the years it will be before I may see him again.
He may come back to town to visit.
But I'm leaving too.
I'm afraid I'll never see him again.