I’m staring at blue. A blue of swirling memories of yesteryears, when you were still here. My legs in short shorts, your laughter across the room, drunkenly driving you home without a license in somebody else’s car. You loved me, didn’t you? And I loved you. Dialysis machines and chilling air conditioners, slices of smoked beef on wheat with chili and mayo, the sheets of flowing green silk you fitted on me. For a blink of eternity’s eye we had a spot in space and time. Not quite an us, not quite apart. Audrey Hepburn’s unforgettable face, Bette Davis’ cigarette smoke, Almodovar’s quirky movies. You didn’t care that I was different. And yes, you were different, too. Arby’s gooey melted cheese, Silverbirds waiting in the front lawn, insistently calling me Spikey even when my hair got curly. “No one’s ever done that for me,” you whispered after glasses of chardonnay. Years later you confessed that no one ever did again. Nights of foosball, of salsa music, of endless conversations and punchlines and wishes and dreams.
And now you’re gone. And there is only memory.
And this is for now, a goodbye.