Remington.

I'd asked him a silly question

as I often do:

what typeface would I be? Why?

What font do I exude?

I expected a silly answer back

Thou art Baskerville, 

one friend had said, without hesitation

Citing thunderstorm nights and 

candlelit corners as their reasoning.

But not him—

He took two solid weeks to make a decision.

But it really wasn't a decision at all—

It was a category.

You'd be a typewriter,

He'd finally said.

A living diary for everyone you've ever loved,

He explained even more,

You write as if your friends are your lovers 

gone off to war—

There really is no other choice.

I had to laugh,

telling him of the old

Remington Quiet-Write in the lounge.

Of course you have one,

He replied

Sounding almost as if he knew

That that big box of metal and ribbon was the only thing

Holding every confession I never had the courage to speak aloud

Months later— without thinking—

We walked into Remington's

Because the universe has a sense of humor

Sharp enough to slice paper.

Neither of us mentioned it—

I don't know if either of us noticed it at the time—

But I know that fate did.

I know that she leaned on the bar,

Smirking, eyes glinting,

Watching me sit across from the man

I write about like I'm trying to keep him alive with adjectives.

The waiter set down our plates

and something in me stuttered

Like a ribbon caught in gears.

Because if I write as though I am a lover,

And if most of what I write is him—

Then why shouldn't we dine as them too?

Just two people,

sharing a meal

in a restaurant named after the machine

that knows my heartbeat better than I do.

Two people,

pretending not to notice

that life has started typing our names

on the same line.

I don’t know what any of this means,

but if I truly am a typewriter font—

ink-marked,

edge-soft,

haunted by my own tenderness —

then maybe he’s the only one

who reads me

at the depth

I was written.