[De]Friend: The Longest Goodbye

[De]Friend: The Longest Goodbye
September 27, 2012

Where are you?

You should invite me over to commiserate, but I probably won’t come.

That was mean.

You know I always want to hang out with you.

I’m just being terrible at “coy.”

It’s a weird look for me.

I think about you too often.

I’m sorry if you’re confused.

Now, it’s time for you to stop playing coy.

Boy: you haunt me.

Like a pop tune that I unabashedly know every word to despite my tight pants.

I like laying in arms/with you in my arms.

I miss it often.

You’re appreciation of my use of colons is sweet, and “haunting” is not really the look you were going for.

So I’m going home in a bit.

Shit together or not, you affected me.

Colons aside.

You’ll be hard-pressed to be honest with me again after this.

So I’ll keep recreating momentary delusion with lesser-than misanthropes.

Take that!

She likes words.

I just like you.

But you know that already.

I’m not looking to join you on your liberation tour.

You talk too much.

Some of my favorite moments between us have only involved animal noises.

Boy: if you’re never going to be interested I’d rather hear it now.

Then, I can just put you in the friend bubble.

Otherwise, I’ll continue to think about us in wrestling garb pressing our bodies against walls and bad analogies until we shook with cum-stricken exaltation.

Your exaggerated exclamation marks said it all.

You’re a smart man, Boy.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.

While I’ve known for quite some time that you were never going to materialize in my life again as anything other than someone who drinks “Smurf Piss” alongside me at a bar, I have always hoped that one day we’d end up in a yoga class next to each other and back in an embrace.

I’m talking too much.

Clearly, I’m showing my Eastern upbringing.

Should probably go to bed and write a fucking poem about it in the morning.

I’m being unfair.

But I hope you understand.

Our friendship I value, but I just needed to remind you that I would happily entertain something more with you if ever given the chance.

You spoke to me.

I’m done now.

Get some sleep.

Sorry to burden you with my ramblings.

Boy: you’re ethereal, but I’m not going to Amy Winehouse/Eliot Smith myself over you.

I just harbor this weird feeling that one day you’re going to realize that you really liked me.

In the meantime, I’ll probably eat chicken nuggets and sriracha fries knowing that lesser-than men will love me even if you can’t.

It’s terrible, but at least it’s honest.

And sometimes I just think about how nice it would be to hear you call me “boyfriend.”

Those nights are cold like tonight.

I would change everything and nothing about myself for that.

I’m done.

I’ll expect to hear from you never.

Thank you.

I’m happy with your silence.

I talk too much.

I can’t believe you indulged me this much.

Have a good night, Boy.


And the morning after …

It’s official.

I have to delete you from my phone.

And Facebook.

And I should delete myself from the Castro.

I would say I’m sorry for saying all those things, but I’m not.

I’m mostly just embarrassed that you know them now.

So, now you know I never really wanted to just be your friend.

How I was a sniveling little puppy lusting around the Gayborhood trying to pick up your scent.

Honestly, Boy, I have liked the conversation and the friendship, but here’s the last colon: I’m done.

I’ll always be cordial to you if and when I see you, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I hope it’s not soon.

Sorry I ballooned what for you was probably something so insignificant into so much more.

You, very one-sidedly, meant me much.

Thanks for always being sweet, Boy.

Good luck with everything.