You Dear Young Leman, “I think about why it stopped. Why you left and what was truth? What was blind passion, and I don’t know, maybe the passion was the truth. Maybe the only thing that slipped away was the blind part.” That’s what you wrote after we were done and put away. You were right. Temporary blindness is useful. How can we see anything when we’re so busy being seen? When we’re being whipped up into those soft peaks. It was sweet, being looked at by you. You were so young. We would spend hours calculating our age difference: “When I am Q you would still only be N and that will continue to suck,” I’d say. “But wait!” you’d say, sitting up suddenly. “When I will be P, you will be M! That’s not so terrible, right?” I’d try to picture it. “Maybe,” I’d say, “but you still won’t even have a yard. Or legitimate regrets. Do you even have your wisdom teeth?” You’d growl at me for ruining your idea. Threaten to bonk me with the champagne bottle.
