Wednesday, February 27, 2013

When your love moves to Berlin, it is September. Or rather, it is October, but for you it is September since that is when you parted on a subway train near downtown Los Angeles, stealing one last kiss, fighting for time against closing train doors.

When the end of the year finally shows its face, it's a face of loss, it's a face that is a hole where a face should be, and your love is in Berlin, in the snow, and you are in Buenos Aires, almost but not really next to the sea, and it is 95 degrees and humid, and you are praying for rain. And everything you've lost is still and always gone.

When your love reappears, it is Los Angeles that holds him, between palm trees and ocean air, it is the light of never ending summer that delivers him whole, more complete than you could imagine, than you could recall. And so you celebrate by taking him to the strangest hotel imaginable, where the lamps match the blinds and cause the dizziness of optical illusions. You still think maybe his presence is an optical illusion. You insist on taking photos in mirrors to test your hypothesis  You insist on taking photos in which you are both silhouetted by the setting sun so that you can better grasp your outline, together, against the infinite Pacific horizon.

When your love moves back to Berlin, it's because he's moving back home. You send him off with a milagro, a small pair of lungs, to keep him safe, to keep him breathing, to remind him of your lungs, which parenthesize your heart, which is his.


The Standard Downtown Hotel--

Venice Canals--

Hotel Erwin rooftop bar drinks with friends--

Aquarium of the Pacific in Long Beach--

Oysters. Santa Monica. A date night goodbye.