He’s not the first one I think of in the morning, nor is he the last face I picture before I finally drift off into sleep. I don’t ever find myself looking at my watch and trying to figure out what he’s doing, 3,000 miles and 3 time zones away. Promise.

I’ve since distracted myself from those types of thoughts, it’s been a good amount of time.

But when he’s next to me, when I visit home and we catch up—my muscle memory wants to kick in. I’m fully aware of this, I prevent it, but I still want to unconsciously react.

I want to fix his collar, cause its a little crooked. I almost loop my arm through his while we walk to our next destination and I’m sharing my latest stupid anecdotes. I make funny faces as he sits across the table from me.

And he still knows.

He can pick out the single drink I’m about to order off the menu, the one crafted with scotch or rye and doesn’t sound too sweet. He knows that if I could I would put Frank O as vocals on a Dilla track and call it a day, fuckit, they can make an entire fantasy album together. He knows that I hate that the clock is ticking in my head from the moment I land at SFO, but at the same time I can’t wait to get back to NY.

Go figure, he has history on his side. He studied and helped shape the woman I am.

And now… after a minute to reflect I’m kind of a mess. I hate that he’s the only one who knows me like that right now. I hate that my body still feels completely at ease around him (even though my mind knows better). I hate that he can still predict my every move and get it right.

But what I hate most… is that ever since him… no one else has honestly tried, cause he’s not the one, he’s just the prototype.