Whatever this is.

I want to write about it but I don't know where to start. I want to write about it but I cannot see the screen. I want to write about it but my vision is blurry sans contact lenses. I want to write about it but my mind is blurry too.

I want to write about walking through Cusco's Plaza de Armas in awe of what this place has come to mean to me. I want to write about how everything looks exactly the same as when I got here but feels precisely the opposite: Cusco's blue sky, the cafe, the cobblestones, Real McCoy, the cathedral, the fountain, Los Perros. I want to write about how it's all the same but isn't. I want to write about seeing emptiness after having been so full...fulfilled that is...in such a short period of time. I want to write about waking up to his alarm at 5 AM, throwing on my clothes, hugging him goodbye, and seeing him into the darkness. I want to write about waking up again, at 9:15, and straining to hear his airplane taking off over Cusco.


It wasn't only sex. It was holding each other and caring and arguing and talking politics and sharing dreams and telling secrets. I don't know what it was, really, but I know this much is true: it's going to be one hell of a memory...

Whatever happens upon my return to New York and his to Britain, I hope we meet again.