Specious.

I keep trying to write you something, because I know I should, but I can never write about you. I can write for you, but never about you. It’s frustrating as hell.

I’ve been sitting here since four-thirty, drinking (mostly) vodka cranberries. I cut a lime into wedges because it’s Friday and I’m alone, and I figured I deserved the extravagance. But I soon abandoned both the lime and the cranberry. And then around lucky number seven I realized that if I was going to keep up the pace and continue to breathe autonomically, I should probably run downstairs and pick up some Budweisers to finish out the night with.

Yes, I’m drinking alone, having turned down no less than three offers of company. Andrew gets depressed as hell when he drinks alone, but I was depressed as hell from a very early hour this morning, having made a detour towards the written word for God knows what reason. And I’ve been distracted all the live long day, and I miss you, and I’m sorry as hell. But I’m drinking alone because I want to, and I can think of you clearly even though you’re not here.

The weather’s been gorgeous, and I’ve been sitting here folding origami cranes and thinking of you. I also made a swallow, a bunny, a ladybug, and a butterfly, but I made three cranes today and I feel my luck changing already. I wanted to tell you this morning that you are the love of my life, and even though I know that I am not the love of yours, it’s okay. I didn’t tell you anything today except a lame joke, and your graciousness humbled me into further silence. But I feel a karmic shift coming on and it’s good. You are the only boy to have ever seen me cry, and if you could see me now you’d see it again.

I love you my darling boy, and I promise to be done with the booze and the weepy folk music and the sentimentality as soon as I’ve finished this six-pack. I’m three down, and Winston is being cute as hell, and I miss you. I’ll get my senbazuru one of these days, and then what, I don’t know. But I’m hoping the cranes do.