Part I: A Year And Seven Months

Three lesbian girls and the forgotten brilliance of “trykes”.  Swimming in your boxers because you are “only going to be here once.” The maddening nature of “hot water”.  A couple of sunsets.  A girl that drove you mad.  A girl that drives you mad.  Some stairwell at some discotheque.  Perhaps a dozen waterfalls.  Nights at Newport Pizza.  Names long gone.  Faces you won’t forget so easily.  Fewer sunrises.  A bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  Sickness.  The feeling of being cold.  Halloween and new friends.  Guns.  Bowling ball breasts.  The feeling of being old.  And Christmas at home and how every year feels different now.  And another new year.

Part II. Epic Endings

Because a year and seven months.  And often time goes by in an instant.  But this time was a long time.  And I wasn’t sure where to begin.  When part of me yearned for some epic ending.  But instead life simply continued.

Because over two months ago, I returned to the world of ice machines.  And January and February were cold.  But not as cold as I remember.  Indeed, there were these forgotten moments of brilliance.  Remembering that I was a good engineer.  That I am a good engineer.  A sense of identity that was easy to forget.  But just as easy to remember.

But on the day that I returned, I found myself stepping back once more.  Because the decisions that I had made were unmade.  And the decisions that I couldn’t make found answers.

And they are answers that I am comfortable with.  But they are answers that are scattered.

Part III. The Photograph.

And a while back I took this photo for a friend.  Though I didn’t know it at the time.  And for a while, I had forgotten about it.  Until months later when she described her “puzzle piece”.  I thought she might have been responsible for it.

But she wasn’t.  Or if she was she didn’t admit it to me.  Though I am not sure that I would have admitted it either.  If the situation had been reversed.  Though she did like the photo.

Incidentally and unrelatedly, she gave me an introduction to a Mr. Charles Bukowski.  And his short stories have been a welcome diversion.

But that was months ago now.  And she’s gone to another city.  And some part of you is whispering that perhaps you should follow suit.  Though for now it’s only a whisper.

Part IV. Intimacy

And there is this problem with stepping back.  Because you lose this sense of intimicacy.  And it takes time to regain it back.  But the trouble is when you aren’t sure that you want it back.

And so it has been hard.  Finding words.  Or finding words worth sharing.  And I have found myself revising these sentences over and over again.  Because the sentences don’t seem honest enough.  Or because they seem too honest (and too hurtful?).  Or they don’t tell the story that I want to tell.  Or they seem too repetitive.

Part V: Architecture.

And so your thoughts float to spiraled buildings filled with bright lights that taste of sunshine.  You find yourself surprised.  Because the trees don’t fit in the picture.  No matter how you see it in your head.  Mangroves.  Pine.  Oak.  Birch.  None of them make the picture right.

And you wonder if it is your imagination when the Architect reveals herself once more.  Because you had wondered if she was right.  Or if it mattered.  And perhaps she knew.  (Indeed, she seemed to know.)  Because she was gentler this time.  Her questions were softer.

But you wonder if your answers seemed more solid.

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