I used to do this thing with every boy that I loved, I would gather up everything. Everything I ever wrote about them. A compilation. A ceremony. Of me and him. I would give it to him, at parting. I think I was trying to say, “That me will always give this much to you. This me will let you keep it, but this me will say goodbye.” I often think of those people, and hurt. I cannot believe I am not theirs to need. To love is to let yourself need. And though you can love many, you only let yourself need one. They were pieces of me, but I gave them back. In me are many holes now. To fill them is my quest. Like so many old rooms, rented for free.
In you I find a permanence. You could go in those rooms, and know them. You would sit down in my vacantness, like you do, and say, Come, let’s look into this. You could name the settled dust, the empty frames. You would know why and how they changed me. And then you would say, I will buy you a house full of rooms. For you to own. And you can fill them with things that will last you. And you can empty them when you are ready. And always, always I will help you fill them again. For you, a home. With me.
(My pages of you: I keep them. Because I have kept you.)