There’s a thing that you do sometimes even though you know it’s a mistake.
There’s an hour you’re awake when you should really be asleep that you do it.
There’s a palpable fear and anxiety and sadness that’s along for the ride.
There’s a premeditation that’s embarrassing yet pragmatic which makes you feel effective and disgusting.
There’s the longing you know is there, after you do the thing, that’s patient in its wait.
There’s the fiction and the selective reality that you will place the thing inside of when you try to bring it back to life in little ways.
There’s all the good pieces of the thing that overshadow all the bad pieces of the thing and even though the thing is gone sometimes the memory of the thing feels more alive than the thing itself ever was.
Because the thing is over. And it never really was, anyway.
Because he never really was anyway.
Because you can’t trust your emotions when you’re nineteen. And again when you’re twenty-one. And again when you’re way too old to make the same mistake again but can’t help but do the thing every once-in-a-while and imagine what it would be like to be a grown-up in love with someone who did all those wonderful, lovely, stupid, unimportant things he did when you were nineteen.
Because nineteen isn’t so different from twenty-seven and you’re not so different except that you are.
You’re all the way different.
Except for those stupid, unimportant, wonderful things.