I have a small scar on my wrist from when I saw LP a little over three weeks ago. In the heat of the afternoon and the moment, he’d held my wrist so tightly against his sheets that he abraided it.
I don’t think of the scar often, but when I see it, it brings all of the LP stuff back.
We’re apart, probably forever. He’s just not a part of my life. I do miss him, but more for the possibility of what could have been had he been less crazy, less busy, for the promise of what we thought we could have last October and November.
We’re still in touch, from a distance, but the 12 blocks between his house and my condo feels like 12 thousand miles.
I have photographs, and emails, and texts, and, now, a small scar on my wrist to remember him by.