Take the W

I was a black cat for a golden retriever lover. A clean shaven face for a beard enthusiast. A ferocious down-picking savant playing in a ska band. Straight black hair for fingers that dream of twisting blonde curls. Pulling twentieth century continental European existentialism out of a bedside drawer instead of the good book. A dry quiet wit falling flat for a fan of peacock feathers. I could feel you decorating my inkless skin with your eyes. A wordsmith on your film set. 

And yet I landed you.

You were my milkshake with the tin. Medium rare steak rested for six minutes. The last Biscoff pocket at Stan’s. A neat barrel proof whiskey in a Glen Carrin glass. The sound of a needle hitting a record on my hifi system. Johnny Mnemonic spinner millions with hold bonus. The double seasoned Dorito. Fresh warm sheets. An ice cold Coke with the windows down and the air conditioning on. The first shirt out of the wash. Seasons 1-4 of the West Wing. A perfect airport pickup. Sleeping in on a Saturday. Double coupon day. A three point parallel park. Jordan in game six. The first time I saw Shawshank Redemption. Christmas morning. A leather couch that remembers your ass. The fast line at the grocery store. The soundtrack to a Tarantino movie. 

You loved me. Everywhere except in my head.

Drove three hours in a snow storm to visit my tiny shoebox. Took the bus to a strange city. Made me a cheese board and chocolate chip cookies every time you saw me. Sewed my buttons. Wore your hair the way I love. Left me notes every morning. Always let me have the Aux.

I didn’t know how to be loved in a healthy way.

And it cost me you. 

I do now.