Dear October 10th,
I nearly started a fire when I saw your name. I forgot that I was cooking and I sat down on the couch trying to remember how to breathe. My quads locked and I felt a lightness about me. I imagine it was the puddling of all the aimless adrenaline that was sent coursing through my system. I didn't know we had anything left that was worth fighting for or running to. My body became exercised but I remained still. All the unused energy brought a surprising pain with it, a heavy fatigue. Hearing from you again was so unexpected. I was still wondering why you had left. Now I was reading that you were coming back.
"I'm moving back to the states this summer . . See you soon."
Our first conversation took place while we were both in the middle of something, but we refused to rush, we stopped anyway and began building. It was unnatural for New York, the way we slowed our lives to give each other time. We just stood there. Three hours later we knew birthdays, family names and phone numbers; all the details guarded from strangers. That conversation gave our lives together an instant permanence that made it impossible to predict this letter.
Kanye compared people to seasons; beautiful and fleeting. He might be right but I can't be sure. The Equinox has come and gone three times since I last saw you, and now that you're on your way back I can't help but wonder: what was the season in our case? Was it your leaving or our time together? Something was only temporary, it can't be both.
897 Broadway, Equinox Building
I almost feel cheated to hear that what I had wanted for so long is now happening. I have not even had time to decide how to best ask you why you left and I already have an answer, your answer: "I'm moving back …." I needed more time to miss you, and to be angry with you in the right way, and to decide that it was okay if I never saw you again. Who leaves a person to whom they had grown so close? Was an entire summer together not enough to receive a reason? Even Johns gets a letter.
During our summer we stood on a rooftop in Brooklyn and celebrated America's birthday. I hesitated under the light of the fireworks because I was afraid that I might push you away, but you had plans on leaving anyway. I probably should have kissed you. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't be writing to you now.
As the summer comes our way again I am not sure how to take you. I was only beginning to get used to the space that you left behind, and learning how to fill it. I had started forgetting the dreams of you gray haired and touched by time. My pronunciation of the few German words I knew became muddled. Now I think about what we will remember together and if trust will grow between us again. I can't be sure but time will tell.
There are 81 days until the summer. I am looking forward to the season.
Bis bald,
MM