"I'm leaving for Las Vegas tomorrow," he says, "let me know what you want me to bring back for you from New York." Before he left I'd said macaroons from 21st Street and Stumptown coffee from the Ace Hotel, but all of a sudden I realized I didn't want any_thing_. What I want is to emerge from the F train on 21st and buy myself one single macaroon and wander to 28th street and grab a coffee. What I want is New York beneath my feet and not a figment in memories. So I tell him, "I honestly can't think of anything." I honestly couldn't. I honestly needn't.
Instead, I ask him to take photos. Not a glimpse of New York through perfect images, but from his bike or office that'd he'd send in the moment. I have no idea whether I feel closer or further from New York since I've met him. We'd talk ceaselessly about it, and I'd think endlessly about it until one day I squeezed his shoulder and said: stop, let's stop.
He lives in a hyper real world where he defies timezones. As for me, I like the pain of longing and loss, for cities, for people, for things that cannot be gotten so easily. As for me, all I want back from New York, Las Vegas, London, or wherever he might teleport to next-- is him.
So dear macaroons on 21st and coffee from 28th, wait for me just yet, I'll be back when I need to. I'll crawl back if I have to, because I know you belong to me, I've never doubted it for a second.