I can see your face through the sun

I am remembering eight years ago, meeting you in the parking lot of my church. I didn’t want anything to do with you, that is, until you started talking. I thought you were a troublemaker, a rebel, someone I could never belong with. We sat on boardwalk steps together, around bonfires, in the back of vans. You kept me up at night, connected me to my computer keyboard, my ear to the phone. You smiled at me when I would sing, making my cheeks turn red. I am remembering denying you a first kiss.

You were always so far away; Hayward, San Diego, Santa Cruz, and always out of reach. I am remembering the fourth of July, the beach, my friends and your lack of enthusiasm. Then there was your bed, your blankets, your kiss and the morning. I am remembering walking on the curb, balancing myself like a gymnast would on her balance beam. "You are such a little kid sometimes" I remember that. There was the party in the back and us in the front, sharing a seat, smoking cigarettes.

I am remembering seeing you after absences of five, six, twelve months even, and the excitement of it all. Holding hands, staring at your face through the sun, smoking, because with you, it didn’t seem like a bad habit. I am remembering how well we controlled ourselves, respected each other and wished nothing but the best for one another. I am remembering the world I was transported into whenever I was with you.

I am remembering how I told you that you were my soulmate, and how you reciprocated. And how amazed we both were at the fact that we've been friends for this long.