The next time I see him, this is how it will go:
We will probably just walk around in the snow together, our cheeks stinging, noses running, eyes watering at all the pretty lights around us, shining.
We'll talk about what he's going to do with his life, and how scared he is. I'll talk about death and how I don't get it and what I'm supposed to be doing with myself that would make me feel more
present in life. He may or may not get freaked out. I'll talk anyway. He'll be interested, but perhaps a little put off. We'll probably stop to get something warm to drink. We'll be happy and
talk about how much we needed that. Then we might kick around the snow a bit and laugh and
I will melt about his laugh. We'll walk up the main street and down a side street for a drink. He'll order a cranberry and vodka. I'll order a PBR or something a bit fancier than a cranberry and vodka. We'll get a little tipsy, I much more than him. Probably drunk, actually, I will be. But I'll need to be to do what I need to do later. We'll trade stories about our childhood christmases and wishes for the universe, our own universes. When we walk out the door, we'll be suprised at how much snow has accumulated. I'll be all starry-eyed and excited. He will laugh at me, and want to be more in love with what he's got.
He'll walk me to the street named after a good man and we will say our goodbyes. When he reaches down to hug me, I will kiss him. I will, I swear it, I will. I don't care. I will. I've got to.
This will be the last time I see him, and he has to know. Words just won't cut it.
It will be warm, the kiss, maybe a little sloppy, but probably not.
Then I'll just run away, kicking up snow, leaving him fucking dumbfounded.
I'll be happy then.