You hosted a party in the living room of our one-bedroom to celebrate my return after a month in Bucharest for work.

There were new books on the bookshelf, but I didn’t ask.

Some friends (a couple) asked that I join them outside to say goodbye—they had a young puppy at home that they couldn’t leave for more than an hour or two.

I put my arms around your waist and whispered in your ear that I would be right back. You whispered to me that you hope we have kids. It started to rain. That moment held so many secrets.

I see the limits of love and of truly knowing you far too frequently. I feel the pain of wanting at the edges. 

Maybe this is my fault. Maybe the limitations are my own, and my capacity too narrow. Or maybe I recoil at proximity to intimacy and vulnerability and confuse the singed edges curling upward as the natural boundaries of things. Maybe I ask too many questions. 

For four weeks in Bucharest, I worried I wasn’t good enough for you. I tried to make myself better for you. I wondered if you thought of me differently when I wasn’t there.   

When I came home, I placed my bag in the bedroom. You had left a gift on the bed. A scarf. “I think the color will match your eyes,” you said. “Try it on. Let’s see.”

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