on never letting go

mourning the dead while loving the living

If you’re at all familiar with my writing, my online presence, or my life as of late—you’ll know that I’m happily in love. Daniel and I are approaching our third lease cycle of cohabitation among other shared things: our beloved pothos, the bunny he stepfathers, conjoined families. We’ve become fixtures in each other’s lives, and I’ve had many friends ask me how I like living with him.

The answer is: immensely so. And I was reminded of that while listening to Ariana Grande. I know, not my usual. I’m more of a sit and wallow music afficionado—but I was drawn to one song in particular from her newest album: “we can’t be friends (wait for your love).” This song is rumored to be about Mac Miller, an ex of hers—and a wonderful musician—who passed away after a lengthy battle with addiction.

I’d never thought of myself as one who sees herself in pop stars. I’m not wildly famous, nor is my life picked apart with such a malicious voracity, nor am I lavishly coated in designer clothes shipped directly to the steps of my mansion. You’d imagine my surprise when I found myself sobbing to these lyrics:

“I don't wanna tiptoe, but I don't wanna hide
But I don't wanna feed this monstrous fire
Just wanna let this story die
And I'll be alright”

Here’s another secret of mine: I find it difficult to be frank. I’m only honest when I’m hiding behind metaphors and obscure synonyms. Bear with me, I’m going to be transparent for a moment. My friend (who I’ll call Tómas) committed suicide in 2021.

There are many, many complications to this story—some of which are not mine to tell. I’ve tried many times to write about him, and every time I fail. There was so much to us, and even more to him. We met during my first week at Berkeley, where we took some of the same classes and caught each others’ eyes quickly. We sat side-by-side in discussion (I even had a graduate student instructor ask me about him?), but by the time he asked me on a date (to walk around a book fair in the city!), I was locked away in a hospital bed.

I spent the following years upon my release feeling utterly unlovable. A lot of my friends from back home had started pulling away. Tómas had moved to Spain. And I made new friends in the co-op I lived in. Then one day, two years later, I got an email from Tómas. He was moving in, too.

We fell in and out of each other’s lives to varying degrees for a time. I was in a relationship, then he was, then we both weren’t, but he was on the verge of moving out, and then he came to visit my room, and we fell in love, and then he went home, and then he was gone.

Tómas had built a habit of popping out of hibernation. When he moved away, I thought for certain that we would meet again soon, at the wrong time, just like we always did. But when I heard that he had passed, I almost didn’t believe it. But as the manager of the co-op, I was left to divvy up the deliverance of the news. I drove us to the memorial. I texted his family. His father said that my poetry collection was one of the last books on his desk.

The chorus of “we can’t be friends” goes like this:

“We can't be friends
But I'd like to just pretend
You cling to your papers and pens
Wait until you like me again”

And I cried when I heard it. Tómas and I had fluttered in and out, loving each other when we hated ourselves the most. As is the case in most writers’ desperate times, we always bonded over writing. In one of our last nights together, we read our respective journal entries detailing our first impressions all those years ago. And we waited, always waited, until we liked each other again.

I dove headfirst into dating after he passed. I was in committed relationships and brief flings and complex situationships before finding myself deeply in love with Daniel. He knows this full story—every detail, every line. When I was broken in two listening to these songs, Daniel was the one who held me and brought me water, tucked me in and hummed me to sleep. Daniel is the reason I know love can be enduring and joyous, understanding and unfettered. His love is stronger than my mourning, and it’s the reason I’ll bring us back to that first verse I quoted:

“I don't wanna tiptoe, but I don't wanna hide
But I don't wanna feed this monstrous fire
Just wanna let this story die
And I'll be alright”

For a while, after the initial storytelling, I thought talking about my exes was taboo. He didn’t talk about his, after all. But I was haunted. I didn’t want to tiptoe, I didn’t want to hide. Instead, I would be silent, solemnly looking at my first poetry collection and wondering how it looked sitting on Tómas’s desk. I wondered which pages he had bookmarked. If he knew which poems were about him.

I wanted to let the story die, and I thought that if I let that happen, I’d be alright. I’d be alright. But the further and further I got from talking about it, from recognizing his loss—the worse it would feel when I remembered everything all over again.

I’m a writer. I always have been. But recently, I’ve felt like I have nothing left to say. It sucks to be _____ in America, yes it’s true, and I’ve read it before, and I’ve said it before, and I don’t know how many times I can rewire myself to spurt out the same sparks. The only thing I’ve been excited about in a while has been my thesis, a weird speculative epic poem about the future and myself being a fractured ghost in the afterlife. And it’s in the days following that draft that that I’ve come to a realization: I think I’ve been running about what scares me most: the things that unsheathe me.

Poetry was, for so long, what I would use to make me strong. But that truth was a reaction to my initial reality. My first collection (out of print, please don’t ask me to ever read it, I’ll never let you) was a haunting record of my darkest moments. Everything I’ve ever written since has been about building myself back. But it’s all felt hollow until the thesis. Until my grandfather died. Until I remembered Tómas.

I have a collection coming out next month with Game Over Books that covers a lot of my recent joy and love and loneliness. It’s available for you to preorder, which I hope you will do. But more importantly, I have a new project I’m working on. And I can’t wait to see how it breaks me. And how I glue myself back together. And how Daniel will be there to hand me the pieces I’ve forgotten.

xoxo

g