I can’t imagine what I would do without you.
Maybe I could, but I don’t want to try.
I don’t ever want to have to.
I wonder what the chances are that two people who are so perfectly fit for soul mates were born six weeks apart, a few houses apart.
Probably not very likely, so that I actually think we shaped ourselves in such a way that brought us here. Perhaps we shaped each other. We chose this, and thank goodness, because I’m not sure I could find someone else with as much anxiety as either of us, nor the effortless way of understanding it within each other. All whilst having the same inexiblicably beautiful and mercilessly sarcastic sense of humor.
I doubt that I could find another human on earth who would have less judgment to any story I might come up with in my own life, nor less surprised by any situation I might tell the tale of. You are the definition of knowing me too well.
We must live in the same place one day.
It just has to happen.
I vaguely remember our long distance phone calls when we were only 5 or 6 years old, and I wish I could hear the heartfelt advice that a six year old version of me must have offered to my best friend, who’s parents were getting divorced.
I remember nursery school with you and Lillian, teaching you guys how to tie your shoes. The three amigos, or shall I say the drunken maidens.
I remember looking back as you took that first swig out of the water bottle on the way to the Jack Johnson concert. Sneaking into the pool with Micah.
Summers.
I remember crying to you in my car outside your house and collapsing on the ground with laughter in almost the exact same place.
I remember you crying in the stairway of the pink house and walking you home.
I remember the gorgeous perfection (albeit not so clearly) of the parties in the pink house. And the Demont’s. And Sam’s.
Hiding in the back of your mom’s car to surprise you after school in NYC for your 16th birthday.
CANNES.
And glorious private dance parties.
And all the love.
So much love that I want to hold you so tight, but without breaking your baby bird bones again.
Inkwells. The parking lot at Woodlands.
And the RANCH.
And all the food.
And doing nothing.
Just being.
With you.
And it being perfect.