We are a Memory I Dreamed

I have been mourning the loss of what could have been. I had begun weaving together our story, pulling together the matched threads.

I don’t remember quite how it began — I mean, I don’t know what words were first written. But then you were there, one evening, frame fitted within my phone: a mustached man at his desk, dog sleeping offscreen. How did I look to you, seated on the floor, cat curled on the couch behind me? Did I look like something from your dreams?

Then you became a series of digits on my phone, a string of numbers I smiled to see. Your messages ran green up my screen. I walked down the street to the sound of your voice, imagining a new companion beside me. I began to learn the lilt of your speech, where the Spanish softened sounds, and how you teased me.

We matched up our music; let an algorithm build the soundtrack for our story. Leon sang about our Texas Sun and the orchestra warned of a Necessary Evil, but all I heard was the sound of you. I imagined that one day we’d stand in my kitchen together, building routines to Mary’s round repeating, but now it will only ever be a memory that I once dreamed.

You apologized for talking about serious things, but I so gladly dived into that deep. You said you were afraid to be too heavy, not light & funny, but I thought you seemed so sweet. You lit me up and gave me the space to be. What I probably loved most was the way you listened, and the way you waited and thought about what you wanted to share.