Chopin said, “I tell my piano they things I used to tell you.” It’s not that I disagree. It’s just that I left my piano in Brooklyn and I have long forgotten how to dial your number. So there has been this thunderstorm every afternoon for the past 6 days. The blue smear of paint around the clouds has a leak of grey to it. The hole in the canvas becomes too much to hold and suddenly the entirety of the sky is covered. And then the rain falls. I have found myself whispering between the thunder and the strike of the lightening. I try to the secret in between the time it takes for the light to travel. Even if the flash interrupts, it voids the entire message so I’ve been keeping them short. Starting out simple, I murmured, “It’s been a while.” Then, “Did you feel cold at the 6am wake up call?” “Have you noticed the way the breeze is more dense lately?” “I found a book of mustaches that I’m sure you would love but I didn’t buy it.” “I think of you so-”

It’s better this way. With the cutoff. With the secrets. With the not delivering the whole message. With the six hour drive between us. With the I’ve forgotten how to pronounce how to pronounce the letters of your name. With the I think of you so often and I’ll keep my whispers for the thunderstorms. 

I have found a friend to let me borrow her piano for the next 2 months. For now I am retraining my fingers to not fall into the dial of your voice. To tune these songs to the key of my range. To force them to learn a new song even when all they want to play are the notes that bring you home to me. The thunder has drowned out all those chords. For now I play music you’ve never heard, perfecting the sound of the rain.

So yes it’s a Tuesday but I’ve found myself at a solid amount of kill shot mini glasses.

Oh what’s a kill shot?

It tastes like a skittle mutant just came in my mouth which I mean to describe as a little snippet of a Bacardi grape bottle.

Nevertheless I’ve found myself population 1 of the town Too Drunk Tuesday.

And I’m in a bar where all the bartenders love giving me high fives and saying, “this ones on me.”

And tonight there is a Rangers game.

I know the Rangers because one night you were sloppy and you told me what a foolish team they were because they had only won the cup in ‘84 and we had taken it in 2001.

So we’re sitting here watching the Rangers somehow lose to the Flyers, a team they claim to be wildly better than.

And I naturally find myself caught up in your cologne.

I’m sure you’re not here. This is a city you don’t live in, in a bar you don’t ask for a 7th shot of whiskey in. This is a town I call mine. A bar I can crawl on top on to fix the smudge on the TV.

This is where I built the “After You”. This is the place I was able to unvelcro our names. I could finally walk in somewhere and they wouldn’t ask why you weren’t hanging off my belt loops. 

I went to order a milkshake yesterday because I like milkshakes and the waitress innocently asked if I wanted a straw. I scoffed and commented that straws are for children unconsciously channeling the you that pulled the plastic tools out of your beverage like someone plunked a lego in your Coke.

On my run a gentleman remarked on the slogan on my t shirt which had something to do with guts, determination, and grizzlies. I turned up the volume and plugged away at the 5 miles planned that evening. After arriving home I peeled off the sweat covered t shirt imprinted with your name at every seam.

New York has been bad at responding to spring’s invitation. She says she’s busy. Says she has another party to attend. Says she has already bought tickets to a show.  And if you we’re to run into her tonight she would still have the hockey game turned on, reminiscing over the night she was sure she broke her nose, full of blueberry Smirnoff and 17 years old, and you kissed her so gently and reminded her tonight you would make sure the pain would stay home.

That night the only place to sleep was underneath your left arm, convinced the pain couldn’t find her there.

The Rangers are loosing. I thought about calling to ask for directions in the Barcardi Grape haze wondering how I would ever find my way back to you after all these years.

Instead I walked the long way home, shut my phone off, promised myself I wouldn’t check the scores till morning.