The people I have loved, and the people who have loved things about me…
I told you I loved you the summer that left the freckles on my back more prominent than any before.
I told you I love you in the summer that I was in between 23 and 24.
I told you I loved you in the summer that I fought with the majority of people in my life, being battered from one direction to the other because i never knew how to communicate with them.
I told you I loved you the summer that distance was like a great chasm.
I told you I loved you under my breath the summer that felt more like a summary of all the summers I had had before.
I told you I loved you every time I got off the phone with you, just like every other time in the 23 years I had been alive.
I told you I loved you and meant it when I was drunk off fun, and the music and the carpet under my toes and the way I looked at you and just got it.
I told you I didn’t love you back the way you loved me over the phone the summer that I worked in women’s fashion.
I told you I didn’t understand myself, and instead you just told me things about how disappointed you were in me the summer I only saw you briefly.
I told you that I loved you, but i didn’t like the people we made each other around each other the summer where you and I screamed and screamed at each other like feral animals from different species not understanding any word that was said.
He told me he loved me in a dirty bar on a crowded night when he was drunk, and missed who I was for him the summer I worked on things about myself I didn’t like.
He told me he loved me in a facebook message stating that he was going some where far away the summer that he missed his hometown and I was in mine.
He told me he wanted to hold onto me as long as he could the summer before the summer I rode the subway alone at 5am when I should have slept in.
He told me he loved how beautiful I am on an empty street as I was closing my front door the summer I didn’t want to be like the summer before it.
He told me how much he liked my laugh in a bedroom in philadelphia when I woke up fully clothed and told him a story of how I broke my foot.
He told me he liked my glasses as he sipped his beer and stared at me in the corner near the pool table the summer we’d been introduced by a friend of a friend who always carried a camera.
He told me he liked my smile the summer I had burned myself badly at a dinner party when I was too nervous no one would like my cooking.
He told me he liked my blog the summer I went on my first roof in Brooklyn.
He told me we’d be friends forever the summer before the summer I tried to throw away most of my clothing and couldn’t.
He told me he liked my body because I had long legs and my stride kept with his, and that summer was the summer I felt dwarfed and petite.
He told me he loved all these things about me, but those weren’t things that were important to me the summer I lived on a murphy bed and had no air conditioning.