Qué difícil tratar de olvidarte

Nothing like heartache to bring out the Mexican in me. I am my father’s daughter.

This song is about the last meeting of two lovers over a bottle of tequila. They must part before love ends. There is no pleading. No demands. Just an agreement that, should they meet in the street, they will simply shake hands.

I am fortunate to have loved. There is the every day kind of love that is basted regularly with anecdotes and endless cups of boxed wine. There is esoteric love that hovers over conversations and creates an ephemeral link, unbreakable by space and time. And there is a passionate, carnal love that stokes fires and vacillates between pain and pleasure.

Of this last variety, I have only known one in my life. We’ve only ever spent four nights together over four years. Every time I’ve been radically different people. I was so naive when we met. I think he overwhelmed me. And I couldn’t understand what was interesting enough about me to keep me in his life. The second time we met, I put so much pressure on the meeting and ended up disappointing myself for no good reason. The third time, I was already in love with someone else and a little resentful of this man’s reticence. And the fourth time, well…that was only two nights ago. I told myself to just enjoy whatever came without any expectation. It could be the last time we ever see one another.

Have you ever met someone who changed you? I ate this man’s soul like it was pan dulce dunked in cafe de olla. I carried him with me wherever I went. When I wrote about things I’d seen or done, it was him I was writing to, even if he never read it. He is a muse that evokes poetry in me. Everything that I loved about him, I incorporated into who I was becoming. So when we met this time, it was like talking to myself.

The whole thing is shrouded in mystery. I’m not vague or mystifying. If anything, I’m too honest. Maybe I should hold back and play coy or hard to get. But I wouldn’t know where to begin. I can speak in metaphor and grand concepts, but there’s very little hidden. With him, it takes an excavator to unearth meaning. If it is conscious or just how he thinks, I don’t know. But it doesn’t makes sense that he would play games when he knows he can have whatever he desires from me. It only makes sense because I understand the sting of being precocious and getting punished for having big thoughts that no one knew how to handle.

So I just sit and wonder what goes on in that head of his.

I’ve learned to stop demanding. Or even cajoling. Or nagging. It’s not a good look. Besides, even when he is not here, he’s always here. He never feels too far away as long as I can write about him or make silly lipsync videos that are inspired by him.

There are worse things than to love a beautiful man from afar. I could love no one. Be loved by no one. Have only bitterness running through my veins instead of the effervescent longing for someone who also looks at stars and thinks about this spheroidic rock we all live on as it hurdles through space.

Happy pi day, Roy. I couldn’t imagine anyone else on Earth I’d rather share it with.


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