To All The Friends I've Loved Before: 03

art school, late nights, Claddagh rings, Norman Reedus, and the dark academia of it all

To All The Friends I’ve Loved Before is a collection of unsaid promises to the people who have meant the most. The friends I’ve lost, the relationships I’ve ruined, the unspoken words between two people who never had a chance.

In the dorms, Beth-Ann is singing.

Beth-Ann is singing and Jen is baking and Sam is picking out a movie, and it’s 1 am when someone shouts “Let’s get coffee!” And suddenly we’re piled into a tiny red car and there aren’t enough seatbelts, and I’ve ordered a coffee but it’s no use. I can’t keep my eyes open.

And you’re not worth it anyway.

But there are writing groups in the old barn and afternoons spent at Moobys and photos hung in the dark room that make me feel like I’m living inside Norman Reedus’ Gossip; before he got famous. Before he stopped washing his hair.

I’m not an artist.

But I try, god, I try, and I love every second of my frenzied attempt to fit in. I don’t belong, but you let me think I do. My underdeveloped writing, my curiosity, my desires so much stronger than my talent.

You were all so talented.

Do you still paint? Is your family ok? I think about your dad sometimes. About your mom and if she ever married that Canadian. If you like him now. (probably not) If you ever did anything with those photos. If you met the love of your life. If you’re happy.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your graduation.

But there we are, gathered around the smoke shack, and I’m just there for you, and I wish you’d quit but I love you so much that it only hurts when you look at me. So I stand in the smoke and the cold and the knowledge that I can never be what you need me to be, that I will hurt you and you will hurt me, but we’ll love each other anyways.

And so we do.

Then I’m on the phone and she is crying but she’s the best thing to happen to me and it’s all because of you and the Claddagh ring you wouldn’t turn around and the promises you couldn’t keep and the cruel way you pulled me into your world only to toss me out a few weeks later.

Like I was nothing.

So here we are in the senior dorm and it’s so far past my bedtime, but Beth-Ann is still singing and Jen is still baking and Sam is still looking for that movie. We are black coffee and all-night diners, secrets and a shared belief that we’re the exception. That we won’t end up like our parents. That we’ll be happy. Fulfilled. That we really can have it all.

He’s not worth it.

But you are.

So maybe, I’ll hang on to these memories just a little longer.

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