A HOPE FLASK, TWO HEARTS, A LOVE LETTER

They say in order to remember someone's name
you should repeat it
—both in your head and out loud.
We never had one of those awkward moments
in which I had to ask you for your name
—again
'cause I practiced
both syllables
relentlessly
like a toddler
learning how the exhaled air from his lungs
moves his vocal cords to make sound;
pushed through the shape of his mouth
to bend into words that say, keep me.
That say, yes.
That say,

When I saw you for the first time
the hollows of my chest
rung
with a hum
as if every horn section in this hemisphere
suddenly felt the need to exhale—
in that moment the fingers of my right hand
plucked the hair on my left arm
expecting to hear the chords of a perfectly tuned acoustic guitar
and a slow dance
instead I felt the pinch of my fingers
pulling skin and hair and
realized
this moment
was real—
ly happening
and it was everything.
I had no choice but to put on my big boy pants,
prep myself for the long term,
and fully breathe you in.

Your name wrote itself on the oxygen particles
that took to my lungs in the cursive patterns of breath
that gave me life that day—you
gave me life that day.

Into my vocabulary
you were born
a sensation of something hovering in my chest
where there once was only room for heartburn or heartache
your presence took shape
as if I swallowed a dozen fortune cookies
whole
and they all came true at once
—in bed.

I don’t know who writes those things
but the one I have in my wallet reads:
     You have the ability to sense and know higher truth.

Which means the one you have in your wallet must read:
     You are a higher truth.

Either way, you’re a fortune and I found you
and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared
that I maybe might not know what I’m doing with this life
and it is then when I look down and see
your hand
holding my hand and—YES!—
THIS is what all those John Hughes movies are about!

The first time we kissed
I felt like a boy who never knew what to do with the good things
when he got ‘em;
I collected medals that marked occasions
but I never knew how to be the occasion
until we overcame the distance between The Windy City
and The City That Never Sleeps
without comparing big apples to deep dishes.

We sang, we danced, and we broke things—
darlin’, we broke things;
we broke rules,
we broke habits,
and we broke even—even on the odd days.

What it comes down to is
I could successfully live without most things
because you taught me how to show up in the now
with a certain kind of patience
that has carried me happily into recognizing
you are adventurous and inspiring and supportive and humorous and sensible.
And you’re here.
With me.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

I have been told that if you walk the length of the Brooklyn Bridge
just before dusk
with a hope flask,
two hearts,
and a love letter written in your lungs,
you will witness the very fine and flexible line
where land ends and water begins;
I have been told in no uncertain terms
that if you listen closely
you will hear at some point in that delicate boundary
a moment when water says to land,
“don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
And another moment
at which land says to water,
“don’t worry, I’m here for you.”

When we lay ear-to-ear across the length of the floor
and listen for the ocean in each other’s head—

When we drink hot chocolate from wine glasses—

When I do that hand gesture
as if I'm holding up an invisible camera
accompanied by a clicking noise
and I blink one eye
and you laugh that adorable laugh
that’s reserved for me in the comfort of the trust we’ve built—

That moment—we all want it over and over and over again
that moment when we look into someone else's eyes
and everything fades around us
all the ocean in our heads crashes into a calm
with the other person with the other set of eyes saying,

Don’t worry,
I’m right here.

I don’t know who writes these things,
but I
wrote this
for you—
it’s my name
and I want you to have it.

5/2/2015