in its entirety

by


The piece I read at Letters Out Loud last week. Thank you for coming, for listening, for sharing the words and the feelings. It was a good night.
{Photo by Stephie Yapnayon}

***
To Every Boy I Almost Loved
I just want you to know that I did
what I could. In high school I stared, unrelentingly,
at the back of your head at morning assembly, your
slick shiny hair a smooth espresso shot
to my senses constantly searching for Fridays, but always
landing on Mondays. On prom night I watched you dance
with the popular girl, and back then Taylor Swift
had not yet been invented, and so I didn’t know
that one day I could write about this, in pursuit of
some sort of justice, or to restore some sort of balance
to a universe that kept lumping all the gods and goddesses
together, leaving the rest of us unsorted
with our unremarkably human flesh and bones, our bruised
beating hearts and skinned shaking self-esteem.

I just want you to know that I did
what felt right at the moment, in 2002, when we met
in covered courts potent with energy, filled with white
sneakers and blue jeans and scratched mustard
monobloc chairs, straining under the weight of hundreds
of fresh-faced boys and girls all eager to cash in on
the promise of a bright new beginning. I did
what felt right at the moment, which was to
tell you my name when you asked, and maybe to ask
for yours, which wasn’t very much, but which
of course felt valiant and noble and monumental
at that time—one giant leap for nerdkind.

Look: I just don’t want you to think
I never tried.

I just want you to know that I did
my homework, brushed up on the details that pointed
to you and me, together. In the last weeks of senior year
I was free, finished with papers and tests, and I thought
this meant I was also done with windmill-tilting waiting
and people who did not return calls or affection.
I just want you to know that I didn’t
take this the wrong way
or take it against you, that when we stood
on a hill between the earth and sky, all was
forgiven, granted permission to take flight.

I just want you to know that I kept
my mind open, my mouth stretched into a smile,
the 70-year-old cat lady with crooked teeth                  
and lawn territory issues at bay. I kept my doubts
hidden in a box, hunted down a wild beast and fed it
the key; I kept myself on my toes, always,
because you were really tall and I’d stopped growing
at 13; I kept an eye on my words, my hyper-critical
observations (the perks, or not, of being a wallflower);
I kept my judgy pants at home, left them hanging
deep within a closet, where they could breathe in
the clear scent of mothballs and realize that sometimes the
only purpose is preservation.

I just want you to know that I wasn’t hoping
we could ignore the warning signs, or dismiss
the distance between the districts we call home, or pretend
that the odds were ever in our favor, and that we didn’t
hunger for the day our luck would change.
I just want you to know that I wasn’t hoping
for some accessible local version of Ryan Gosling; and anyway
all that blue suffering was middle-age-balding-depressing,
and why the hell doesn’t Michelle Williams ever stop crying?

Here’s the thing: I just want you to know that I meant
what I said about being okay with “hanging out sometime”
or “getting coffee after work;” I just want you to know
that I meant what I said about bridges remaining unburned, 
strong, about the damage to property only being temporary.
I just want you to know that I meant to believe we
just needed a bit of airing out,
a little space to find our place and
a little place to find our space; I just want you
to know that I meant to believe what I’d been hearing
from girl friends and guide books,
from Seth and Summer, Rachel and Ross,
Lorelai and Luke: that it will all get better in time
for the closing credits.

I just want you to know that
I meant for it to be so much more than this.
And I want you to know that it’s nobody’s fault
that it isn’t.