a post I’m writing instead of texting you

I’m sitting in my bed, reading all the journal entries I ever wrote about you, when a familiar melody drifts into my window.

“No,” I think, “That can’t be the song I think it is.”

But it is. Of course. What other song would it be?

Soy un idiota te perdi, pero te amo.

I recognized it immediately, probably because I’ve been listening to it so much these past few months.

Everything I touch makes me think of you. I hope this is not also true for you, as I know exactly where your hands have been lately. I hope she doesn’t make you think of me.

I wanted to send you a text, dripping with sarcasm, letting you know that the people who are putting a pool in my neighbors back yard were listening to Un Idiota and I thought of you. I would act like I was trying to make you laugh, but I would really be hoping that my short sentences on your small screen would make you think of me too.

It’s some peculiar form of torture to be sitting at home, for once, knowing that you are only a 15 minute drive away. Or a .2 second text message, for that matter.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not an idiota anymore. This is the text you won’t be getting from me today (or tomorrow, or all the days after that). I would delete your number, but it wouldn’t do me any good; I’ve had it memorized since that day after church 3 Februarys ago.

I wonder how long it will be until I forget your number? I wonder how many more months will have to pass before spanish love songs stop making me cry?

I hope those days come quickly.

hoy no sirven de nada mis pregones
cuando quise volver ya era muy tarde
camine por la senda equivocada
y te hice llorar