YOU HAVE APPROACHED A LONELY CRAB.

My favorite place in the city is probably Harlem. You never had to leave 125th; there was a Trader Joes, a Target, a TJ Maxx, a Chik-fil-a, a Canes--whatever your heart desired, it would all be on the same street.

Harlem is of course more than a bunch of stores. I passed the Apollo almost everyday, [something about Marcus Garvey Park, Malcolm X movie, ppl watching, idk].

Harlem was just as busy and dirty as the rest of New York, but for some reason it felt less noticeable. In the daytime, everyone was on their way to somewhere, and at night it finally got quiet. I got so used to noise that I didn't notice the squeaking rats until C pointed them out to me.

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It feels hard to write about New York because most of it feels like a haze. It felt like normal life; I felt like I had lived there for the past year, not two weeks. I got used to being there and being around him.

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He said rubbing me from my arms to my thighs was like playing all the keys of piano. He was good at making analogies, and I really enjoyed this one. We had hotel sex twice and the first time he said he had the best sexual experience of his life.

I've somehow managed to have a lot of sex but still be a virgin, at 24.

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I spend most of my time these days lying around, loving him. If I think about him too hard I start to cry. I stare at the "i love you" until I get butterflies. I miss him kissing the small of my back; the taste of his tongue; salty ocean kisses on the bridge at night; his dimpled smile; his sunshine eyes; seeing him in the driver's seat of my car; watching the local news.

The first thing I noticed about him was his smell as he got into my car. I smelled him soon as I would walk up the stairs in the morning, or at night. His smell still lingers, though it has faded. I keep the bedroom door shut in the hope it'll linger for a bit longer.

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Sometimes I feel like a child around him. A playful energy consumes me. My hand is much smaller than his, and I can easily wrap it entirely around just his thumb.

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On the first night, he kissed my feet before he kissed my lips.

On the second night, he taught me how to kiss patiently. First, he kissed me on my cheeks, then on the forehead, then on the mouth. Then it was my turn to repeat; I kissed him on his cheeks, then his forehead, then on his mouth. There was an apparent tenderness the way he did this, and I knew he had done this before.

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We broke the physical touch barrier when he asked me to wrap up his wet hair in a towel. I straddled him from behind, since I only knew how to do it on myself, and attempted to replicate this. My arms went across his back and around his shoulders and my hands had trouble finding his forehead, so I would need to look at his head at the same time. I tucked in the end of the towel into the nape of his damp neck.

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The tiny black circles of his hair still litter the bathroom floor. I don't want to clean them up since it's the only part of himself he left behind.

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Sometimes I wonder if you find me interesting or smart because you don't seem interested when I actually do have something to say. Or that I've done things you have too.

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I could tell he'd done this before; but at least this time, he chose me.

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My heart had become hardened like a rock, but now it gushes rivers.


[Even then your hearts became hardened like a rock or even harder, for some rocks gush rivers; others split, spilling water; while others are humbled in awe of Allah.]

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I sat in front of him, and he sat against the husband pillow while he fingered me, almost as if he was a shadow and I was masturbating myself. Something about this position felt strangely fatherly, like he was teaching me how to masturbate for the first time.