One night, you told me that it was over.
It was at a rooftop bar near Huntington.
Just before, I was telling you about how
my astigmatism always acted up in the
fuzzy glow of orange-yellow string lights.
I said that it made me tear up if I stared
at them for too long, and you told me how
it reminded you of how when you were
little, your family would set the sprinkler
off in your backyard on steamy summer days.
Light would refract and reflect and break
the day apart into a million pieces off of
every singular drop of water, bathing the
grass and you and your siblings in its glow.
You told me that it was one of your favorite
memories, and that it made you sad, because
you couldn't remember a time in the last five
months when you were that happy. You kept
playing with your glasses while you spoke.
Avoiding eye contact. Looking up at the string
lights. I tried to follow your gaze--but couldn't.
I figured you were looking at something that
would always be fuzzy to me.
-JC