a river in heaven

I sit by the water, remembering you.

The first time we came here, it was spring. I had taken you to see a scary movie on 42nd, but then I got too scared and made you leave with me. I can’t believe you didn’t ditch my loser ass right then and there, but you told me I could never give you the ick, so I knew you loved me. Even later on, through all the fights, you loved me. Up until the end.

So we left the movie theater, and you said I know a spot and led me to this pier on the Hudson, a concrete slab where skaters and bikers congregated. We hopped a fence to get right up against the water, and I lay with my head in your lap as we joked around and yapped like kids, the late afternoon sun caressing, enveloping us in a warm glow.

That’s how I like to remember us — the laughing and singing and dancing. Not the yelling and threats and rage that came to define us. Here’s a graph of how these progressed:

This is how my brain works: numbers and lines and logical sequences. Empathy and compassion, while not entirely foreign, take serious effort. This frustrated you. You wanted an emotional support boyfriend who made you feel loved, always. But all too often, especially toward the end, I would reach deep and find that I had no more love to give you.

So I pretended. But a woman can tell when love is unconditional and freely given, and when it’s not. You often dreamt I was cheating on you — residual terrors from an era when you were one of many, before I had chosen you.

Naturally, you hated the other girls in my life. The girls I met at shows and parties, the ones I messaged on the internet.

“Look, I'm not trying to hook up with these girls,” I explained, “they’re artists and creatives and I admire their work.”

“That's how it starts,” you retorted. “But then you get close and you catch feelings, then one day, you'll tell me it just happened. Fuck no. Show me your phone.”

In the beginning, your jealousy was a treasure. It felt good to be wanted, to know I was special. But then, when it got in the way of my work, your jealousy became a burden. And I wanted out, but I was in too deep. You needed me, needed my love, and I felt responsible for you.

So I stayed.

Not to say I didn't love you too — I did. We’d originally connected like 5-year-olds on the playground: playful, natural, organic. But love turned from gift to obligation, and eventually I couldn't pretend anymore.

I started writing letters to girls from my past. I wrote them as you lay sleeping next to me. Then I posted them online.

Why? I told myself it was about artistic expression, a way to resolve my past and share my stories with the world. And I knew it would kill you, but I did it anyway.

So we fought. All night screaming matches that were never resolved, only briefly adjourned upon mutual exhaustion. Nasty, physical, both our phones wrecked. Then, a good day here or there, a brief respite to renew our hope before the next battle. Cycles, repeated, month after month.

You told me what I’d done was worse than cheating. You hated that I thought of other women, romanticized them in my writing. Most of all, you hated that I refused to write about you.

You don't understand, I said, I can only write about them because they're gone. You’re right here, right now. But that didn’t matter. You wanted all of me: past, present, and future. I could only give you the now. It wasn't enough.

Now I'm sitting by this river and writing you this letter and that's because I know this time it's over. Tomorrow I'm flying out of New York City, this city that has your name written all over it, every borough, every block. You were my New York girl and this city will belong to you long after we both leave, long after we both forget.

I'll be gone for a while. Don't know when I'll return.

Your name in your mother tongue meant ‘river in heaven’. Whenever I look up at the clouds and they form ripples and waves in pink and purple and deep navy blue, like they do when the sun sets over the Hudson... I’ll remember you.