W hen i believe in regards to the singer at all, it is frequently because I’d a fantasy about him. It’s amazing how the facts are all still there during my mind, even fifteen years later on: the rubbed-thin feel of their musical organization tees, the oakmoss records inside the cologne, just how their locks felt from the soft epidermis on my throat. Whenever we had had intercourse, I’m sure those memories will be here, too, but we never did.
The singer to my relationship exists in my own mind in a type of category-less limbo — certainly more than a relationship, yet not quite a real relationship. The singer and we never “made love, ” but we did have sex, coax it through the atmosphere in our folded hearts around us, render it. We made letters and art and tracks, we made listings of things we taught each other, we made poetry we exchanged in the center of the evening, walking into the spot precisely between our across-campus dorms, then walking quickly back other guidelines.