27. Old flames.

Your hand on my back

Your salt still has my lips parched

though I was never thirsty to begin with

You make me want to write love songs to people I never loved

I've been fortunate enough to turn some lukewarm dates into fantastic friendships. This is an ode to one of them.

He always gives me hugs even though he has to bend down to do so. He has a freakish memory for details, and he's always sharing random tidbits of information he's learned about Colonial Africa or a rubber band band (yes, there is one). He is smarter than I'll ever be, but he always encourages me. When I was stressing out about my final paper, he translated Kavafis for me:

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long, --

--Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

(Not his translation this time.) He spent forty-five minutes teaching me how to open a beer bottle using a plastic bottle at a party. He sends me music, both good and hilariously bad. He and a couple of his friends have spent years composing the world's tackiest pop song. (The results have been quite spectacular.) He delights in anything and everything absurd and is a YouTube fiend. He knows all my kinks and understands the ones he needs to understand and laughs at the rest. He's 6'7'' but does a mean impression of an Asian prostitute in my sparkly golden jumper. He even appreciates my dreadful taste in music. He lets me be hysterical and never gets hysterical himself. He's on his way to becoming the next Karate Kid and an iron-fisted Ruler of Archives.

He is good to me in so many ways that I feel I could never return the favour no matter how hard I tried.

You made me feel stupid in so many ways

and powerful in the only way that counted