this is for cosmo.
How could I forget you knew me when I was a smoker? Of course you did. How could I forget reading you my bad poetry that you always understood? I remember now that time we closed the doors to what was then the ‘studio’, that small room by the kitchen I’ve been renting since Cara moved out a few years back. I think I didn’t have it on paper so I read from my computer screen, and I knew you would understand my tortured poems, the ones all about being with someone I never should have been with in the first place-- what is that saying about self torture, or choosing your own destiny, or some other stupid shit like that? Of course you knew me as a smoker, we threw open the windows to that spare bedroom and I lit up and took deep drags as I read out loud all my sorry words, and you listened instead of criticizing the work (which, you, as a much better writer could have easily done) you just sat there, nodding and taking pulls from your own cigarette, getting all smart like you do, and psychoanalyzing my writing much more than it ever deserved to be psychoanalyzed. And yes. We needed the cigarettes then, didn’t we? Back when we were in our twenties (fuck you’re still holding on—squeeze all you can out of the next five weeks) but now we’re older, and if not wiser than at least trying to be healthier, in between too many drinks and late nights, which don’t happen with nearly as much frequency as they used to, and thank god. Because we’ll leave the hard living days to the Scottish men snorting grams of coke and trying to sell us MDA we don’t want anyway. And it was great seeing you tonight. I never did tell you about that reoccurring dream I have (and I’m sort of horrified at what you think it might be) and you never did remember that story, did you? And if I don't see you before, I'll see you in New York my friend.