Sorry Boaz, Geez.

I traveled for the better part of a year with a man named Boaz. He was from Israel but we were moving around Colombia together. Que fue. Boy did we have fun. There wasn't much we didn't see. Even a tiny French woman dunking herself in a jungle pool full of
candiru fish. We stole razors from the grocery store so I could give him a better hair cut.
We got bedbug bites.
He, along with all the men who were tired of the porn playing on the other side of the screen, watched me dance to a Madonna concert preview before the movie Nell. (I was that happy to be in air conditioning and to hear something besides fucking salsa).
We never fought once. We fucked in hammocks and never fell out.
I drank whole milk.

Good times.

Then I grew impatient with being out of the pop-culture loop (Ol' Dirty Bastard was just about to release his first solo work), got bored of reading science fiction and fantasy novels and was eager to move around without feeling light-headed from heatstroke.
So, with little fanfare, I said
bye!
gave him an address and phone number he could call me at if he wanted, and left.

Imagine my surprise four weeks later when Boaz called and said he was in Toronto.
That he had come to see me!

I was surprised.

I did not know what was going on.

If he felt even partly how I feel now, the loss and sadness at distance,
the desire to move tetonic plates and cause a reordering of geography,
the drawn out wondering about what I might do differently to soften the sharp missing-ness of certain moments,
then I really need to say
sorry Boaz, Geez.

Boaz on Israfuckers.