I said, does she have good taste in music? He said, not as good as yours. I said, that's good.

What I really wanted to ask was, do you like her? What a stupid question, of course he does. Do you like her a lot? Do you like her now more than you liked me then? Is she the one? Do you feel sure with her, sure in a way you never did with me? 

But of course, I didn't ask any of those things. I smiled and said, I'm happy for you. What I really meant was, I'm unhappy for myself. But I didn't say that.

And how've you been doing? He asked me. Well, I said. Except... 

Except what? He asked. 

Remember when I used to freak out about dying? I said. I've been doing that a lot these days. I just think of how I have to die and I get so afraid. Is that normal? 

He laughed and said, stop doing that, you're crazy. 

I laughed back and said, maybe. 

But I don't think I'm crazy. I guess I should have been more clear. I guess I should have said, I'm not really afraid of dying. I'm really afraid of dying alone. I'm so afraid of being alone. 

Is that crazy? 

Sometimes I just feel this crushing loneliness that I don't know how to escape from. I thought it would stop when I moved out of New York City. But it's followed me here. It keeps following me and it won't leave.  And I've really tried so hard to leave it behind. 

Sometimes I wonder, am I alone in this world? And if I am, am I strong enough to live through it? Because I don't think I am. 

But I didn't say any of these things.

Don't fuck it up this time, I said to him. He laughed. I won't, he said. You take care of yourself, ok?

So into you-
so swept by
your burning intelligence,
with a speed that calls into question
the legitimacy of any
feeling.

I doubt this
and unapologetically, I doubt you,
You in all your
dazzling charm
and the subliminal passion you inspire
in me, when you speak to me as if I
could be someone.

I want for myself only
not what I had before.
I want for myself only
something a little better,
and you are too good,
too good to not be bad.

But the evening and the morning comes
and I can’t let go of hanging on
to the reverie
of you
because I’m so into
you,

and I only hope
with bitten bottom lip,
that you will last longer,
prove rarer,
more refreshing,
reverberating
and real,
than the words we played to win
each other over

on text and echoing in
the halls of the
great museum,
where we first debuted
our game
to the world.