The moment we met, I knew we would at least be good friends. As I approached you, “Good Feeling” fortuitously played over the radio. Terrible song, but the words were right. I smiled widely. It felt as though a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
I was home.
I marveled at your style – the way you mix vintage and modern, local and exotic into one coherent ensemble. It made me want to see more of you. I’m not normally one to praise the superficial, but it felt familiar, like I already knew you.
You felt it, too, and welcomed me with open arms.
I wanted to undress you, piece by exciting piece, remove the polished mask to uncover the vulgarity you try to hide from the world. You, bare and vulnerable, anticipating the titillation of me exploring you slowly but with purpose.
I didn’t happen that way. I knew this was going to be a brief encounter, but I did the best I could. It was quick and dirty – hot. A drop of sweat tickled my back.
We talked about stopping time, a philosophical exchange about the nature of reality. Right then, we went back in time, performing the ontologically illogical. I gained more moments with you and used them wisely.
I walked along the shores of your lifeline and weaved through the arteries of your heart. I listened to the music you play, in all its forms. I easily felt a part of your life—a part of you.
You’re a leader, always moving and growing. Talking, too. But when I saw you make those children laugh, I felt a warmth in my chest, my heart smiling—I could be one of your followers, too. We could be more than lovers, more than friends.
I hoped to meet you, to peel back the layers and know you were the one. Leaving was difficult when there was so much left unsaid, pieces of you left unseen. I was so determined to be with you, for even but a fleeting moment, that lines were crossed and laws were broken.
I still don’t know who you truly are, but that fuzzy familiarity is all too familiar. Maturity is learning from your mistakes and not repeating them, and you’re too much like someone I’ve left before.
I’d like to see you again, Chicago, but maybe we should just be friends.
Another post in my break-up series at Alyssa Writes