I found God, on the corner of First and Amistad- where the west was all but one. The alternating notes on the piano give way to minor chords and the subdued voice that swims through the speakers into my ears, flooding my mind and permeating my thoughts with a dull haze of sepia tones mixed with the purples and maroons of crunching leaves and soft cardigans.
His name, his eyes, his shy and sideways smile immediately swirl into fruition in my preoccupied internal monologue, interrupting thoughts of celebrities or SAT scores and focusing in on those qualities of his so intriguing that I delve my entire being into solving, employing real life-applications of deductive reasoning and snippets of psychology. Hours after hours are wasted creating hypotheses, which all end up moot. All efforts of mine are dispelled by some invisible forcefield, something I thought I could only encounter in my one failed attempt at playing Zelda: Warrior Princess all those years ago. If only I'd learned which keys to push to make it disintegrate. But I always knew there wasn't a sword or key-combination to diminish the fortress he hid behind now.
All my days were spent by the telephone, that never rang, when all I needed was a call. Not accusatory, not lamenting, more reflecting on time spent glancing down at phones from the first Nokia, to the Razr, all the way to the blackberry, waiting for the same phone number to flash on the screen under the heading "Receiving Call From…" Needless to say, it never did. It wasn't expected to happen, or anticipated, or even implied that it would happen, but there was always that hope that he might turn into a modern-day Mr. Darcy, channeling the character as prognosticated in one of the dozens of books that collect dust on my bookshelf, sitting behind my Chemistry and Physics textbooks, to be pulled out now and again on a free Friday, who would search through Yellow-Pages books and call me endlessly, even when he is greeted by my nondescript voicemail time and time again.
Lost and insecure, you found me. Breathy, rushed, the revelation perfectly captures the pain, anger, but eventual acceptance which pours in as the awareness of the impossibility to redo the past arrives with full impact- jarring, yet glaringly true. Like flashing diner signs with neon fillings that seem to fill the surrounding air with their reverberations, it hits full force, that though the questions can be asked, why'd you have to wait? Where were you?, no satisfying answer can be given, even if attempted with those eyes that carry a thousand leagues of the sea. Even if, contained in those pupils, sometimes peaceful, sometimes crashing with turbulent, black waves, are torture and frenzy, battling some ill-placed sense of duty as they penetrate from atop flushed skin.
No way to know how long he will be next to me. In those fleeting moments, once every four or five blue moons, those cerulean eyes become calm and peaceful, and the fortress slips, whether due to preoccupation with something too fascinating to ignore or some emotion which betrays him, and beside me, or in front of me, or through a computer screen, miles away from me, is the person whose image comes to life in the longing voice echoing through my eardrums as the play count creeps up the charts. In those evanescent appearances lies he who provided the iron for the chains I connected to him, who poured the cement for the bridge I built between us, who would never batter that bridge into oblivion as he has now or melt the chains until they lie in a puddle at my feet, not deep enough to fill the chasm created by wasted time and unspoken truths.