apologies

You're always hurting on holidays because you're always expecting to not be alone. Always hoping that there's some sort of magic that roots itself into certain days and moments and you're missing it. Grasping and losing. And I'm with you always, too. I'm always empathizing with your fury because I'm always feeling it. Truly. Always.

BFA tore the vines from its bricks before I ever ventured inside on my own accord. Which seems okay, in my radiant hindsight, because of all the windows I climbed through. But you're a year older and got to live within the vines for a little while, got to be a part of South Main in its grander times. We had geometry together my freshman year; I'm good with numbers and you were tired of them. We exchanged music, shared stories and opinions and obsessions. Today we only talk in the presence of tighter-knit friends.

Of course that's a step up from this past summer, though. You hated S and I despised you so simply and so wholly for that careful fact. August through November and we never spoke a word. I barely missed you, really. He had my entire mind. I'd been writing poems about him since January of last year, had held his hands and felt his chest and fuck, you were so boring. I wanted to be on the edge of something. You lamented all your pseudo-dreams to "run away" and your love for impulsive midnight-drives but resented me for doing any of those things.

I was angry with your pretenses and you never apologized, never told me you were wrong and lonely and whatever else had snagged your heart. I said I was sorry. I'm the worst at that, I swear to you, but I said it and partially meant it and we both moved on, both agreed to let those months be as they were and nothing more. I can count the people I've apologized to on one hand. In all honesty. You didn't understand. I was afraid, only, to say goodbye to two important faces; I settled with just one. Believe me, though, it wasn't my preference. It wasn't my choice. I waited much too long to have a choice in the matter, but the New York friends I have now (amongst the more elaborate bricks of my new, also vine-less school) tell me, as you haven't, that it's not my fault.

And that's what I wanted. I just wanted everyone to tell me that it wasn't my fault, that I was still lovely and alive and real and necessary. Because no one sat with me the following morning, entranced and enflamed through a seminar that I still don't remember and wishing for a storm or two to calm me down. My piecemeal pals tried their best, rubbed my back and stroked my hair, but I was pissed off, only. Thrown off, only.

And, even with all the alcohol coursing through your system, New Year's got the best of you. Like Christmas. Like Thanksgiving. The following morning, you puked on my toilet (note the preposition) and raved and groaned about needing to go home, having "had enough." I mean, I'd woken up at quarter to nine, stumbled in snow boots to the French Canadian Mecca where I spend 26 hours a week, but you had it bad, surely. You had it worse. I didn't tell you about the boy that night because he was your friend first and I am ashamed, a little. I'm keeping tiny secrets, lately. It's seeming more natural and I'm assuming that it shouldn't. But you're tough and I'm trite, after all. You're gold and I'm crying and trying, at least.