dear friend,

i have this dream sometimes that i concede to my stubborn and painful dedication to not listening to my friends and i visit new york with you. you used to talk at length about how much you loved the met, so naturally that’s where we went.

you point me to all your favorite works. i let you recite all you know about them, and i pretend like i’ve never heard any of this before because it’s all music to me anyways. we’re both fools for history. you pull me around and i let you; i admit that this part of the dream diverges from my memory—you’ve never been forceful. even still, this is how you have me, and frankly i don’t think being anchored to your will bothered me one bit. i don’t recall ever even giving in, yet i’ve completely sunk.

the met is just as grand and tremendous as your boundless enthusiasm for it had me convinced, but i find that my newfound fondness for it attaches itself to your image and i’m unable to tear the two apart. i try to catch your gaze every once in a while to wordlessly thank you for bringing me here, but your attention isn’t aimed at one place for long enough. it never has been. i decide this is okay.

i like to think that there’s something so serendipitous about this trip to the met. maybe it’s providence, maybe intention, maybe sheer coincidence—of anywhere either of us could be at this very second, we’re stood right next to each other in heavy, holy silence, and i’m convinced that things are as they should be only because it’s how i desperately wish they were. that’s the joy of dreaming.

i want to believe that it’s wrong, friend, the way that everyone tells me that this is. i want to believe that i can help this, i want to believe that you’re not magnetic, i want to believe i’m in control. yet in this building, covered wall to wall in the most sincere expressions of humanity that we’re capable of, the only thing i can see is you. you, with your head tipped upwards and away from me, your gaze broad yet meticulous, taking in the scale and detail of it all. friend, i think i love you, and i want to tell you while you’re not looking at me, but the thought of those words’ permanence is more than i can bear. would you forgive me if i told you i was afraid? i want so desperately to mouth the sentiment at you just to get it off my tongue, but saying it mutely does just as much as not saying anything at all. the silence would drain it of its substance, and so it dissolves behind my teeth. i concede to the quiet.

it’s sobering to admit that i’m terrified of scaring you away. but i need you to know that i could have been there for you, friend, and i wanted to be. i’d still do it for you. after all this time, being next to you still feels like coming home. time apart washed away my resentment, and left the softest spot of simple adoration promenading in its absence. friend, i’m wrong, i know i do love you, but i cannot cross this line. i could not push for you to think of me the way i do of you. i could not wish for you to belong to me the way i have to you.

perhaps it’s for that very reason that i’ve persisted in keeping myself from the simple truth that maybe too much time passed between us. i think my head has always known this, but i’ve simply not bothered to tell my heart until now. you’ve been gone since the moment i begged god for peace. in this dream, i’m standing closer to you than i have in what feels like an eternity, but i could be halfway across the world and i would consider the distance the same. you’ve been too far out of my reach for far too long now friend, and even though waiting on some undetermined future waged war on my patience, i could never bring myself to stop wanting. this is my final, labored profession: if we woke up from this together, i’d move mountains to make sure not a single work of art goes unseen by you. i’d keep your dreams sweet and the florists in business. i’d make art of you and for you to go see until my hands break.

in this dream, i study your face and every intricacy of your posture. i catch glimpses of your mind reflected in the blue of your eyes. my entire world exists in the shape of your temple; i only want to be what you think of me, in spite of how dangerous of a want that is. you jokingly told me once a long time ago that you only existed for me to look at you. friend, you’ve no clue how wrong you were.

i wake up from this dream feeling the weight of my head burn a guilty hole through my pillow. i’ve never been to new york city and i’ve not heard a note from you in a century. i hope once in a while you look back and see me taking up space in your memory, staining the walls of the very back of your mind. please don’t forget, friend. i’m sorry that i can’t promise i’ll ever stop burning.

yours,

J