did the sky mourn for the teacher as well?

Thursday, November 19, 2009

did the sky mourn for the teacher as well?

Excuse me. Excuse me. Teach. Teach. Teach! I have a question for you. How is it that I can’t forget about you? Was it the way you wore your white Ts? Was it the blue-hooded sweatshirt you seemed to never take off? Your eyes were definitely dreamy and swimmable. With that smile of yours you could get away with murder. Did I enjoy our dinners out? Or did I enjoy cooking for you? Remember when I fell from running back and forth that day? It was the first time I had ever cooked for anyone. I cooked you a four course meal. I even conducted a pre-dinner date run. I was definitely nervous. It didn’t help that I was running in heels that day. Was your ghetto fab your most appealing quality? What was it about you that still has me hooked? Was it your fabulous duplex apartment in the heart of the West Village? I would totally love to have that apartment of yours. It was incredible, spacious, and most importantly your roommate was hardly ever there. Did our conversations attract me the most? I don’t think so. I don’t remember many quality ones. Ahhh…I spoke too soon. I do remember a particular one after I heard devastating news. You were nice about my situation; didn’t make me feel as stupid as I felt. Do you remember the Mets games we watched? I enjoyed that about you…the fact that you were a Mets fan. Remember Reservoir and the bowling alley? What was it about you that had me hooked? Was it that you were one of the last Americans I dated before heading across the pond? Something about you stuck with me. It stuck with me more than your resemblance to my friend Joe, which at first I could not get past. I enjoyed being with you. You were funny. You were a musician. The first musician I dated. I didn’t enjoy your casual, casual dress for everywhere we went. It was rather a turnoff. However, eventually I took a liking to it. How am I still hooked on you? It has been over two years now since we met and our whatever-you-want-to-call-it ended. It pained me to go away. I felt a connection with you. I don’t know what it was but it was something for me. You were one of the youngest guys I dated and yet you seemed mature for your age. You were well travelled. You spoke another language besides English. You enjoyed music. You enjoyed the classics. You enjoyed Motown hits. I enjoy Motown hits. We danced in your living room. The moment was spectacular. One weekend we were prisoners of your space. We did nothing but sleep, eat, and have sex. It was magical. When I stepped out of your place, I felt a cosmic shift. It was as if I was stepping into another realm. I was floating at your place and had stepped into some sort of heaven. Now that I’m walking down memory lane, I distinctly remember a disastrous moment. Do you know what I’m talking about? It was when you were really drunk. I met you after your concert, which I apologize yet again for missing most of it. We went with your friends to the local bar and had a few Stellas. The night eventually became a haze so we took a cab back to your place with your brother. In the hours between your passing out and your wake the next morning, the bed became heavily soiled. Soiled with urine I think. I can’t confirm with certainty but I’ve never peed in bed nor sweated so profusely as to wet an entire bed. Since there were only two of us there, I’m pretty sure the blame lies within you. Ahhh…good times? Eventually things between us became gray. I didn’t know what we were doing. I would’ve stayed in New York for you. You never asked. You wanted me to go and explore. I remember you telling me to keep in touch. I did but you didn’t. When I returned for the holidays, you were one of the only people I wanted to see. I saw you and slept with you. During the wee hours of the morning, I had to tinkle. While searching for my underoos, I spotted a brassiere. This D-cup brassiere was not mine. My little Bs don’t fit in such a massive bra. I didn’t expect for you to stay faithful to me or mourn me but I wanted some sort of residue of me in your heart. Did you even care? Did you even like me? At times it didn’t seem clear. Suffice it to say, I got the picture. I didn’t like the feeling that morning. I wanted out and I blamed jetlag for my need to scurry off at 6am. The morning walk of shame I think I’ve perfected. Never be too dressy when you go out and always carry flats, sunglasses, a hair tie, and a toothbrush and toothpaste in your bag. Now I remember the Fourth of July. You ignored me then. I remember it was a rainy Fourth of July. I had decided to “White trash” it and had gotten my six-pack, lawn chair, and headed up to the roof with my little Ipod player. It was a sad day. It was a rainy day. I listened to the soundtrack of Lily Allen. She was popular back when. It felt horrible that day to be me. I mourned for us as the skies mourned. I don’t know who cried more that day, the sky or me.