For years I saw my voice as a scarlet letter that screamed to the world: "Here stands a faggot!"

For those not raised in the Church, the idea of grieving the loss of your faith can sound ridiculous.

“They think that I am a prostitute. Does that bother you?” “No, of course not. Does it bother you?” We are walking hand-in-hand along the moat of the Old City and have been for quite some time. It’s two in the morning—what few lights there are flicker in the periphery, as do the people who scurry into dark corners. He is a young Filipino teacher working in Sukothai. He speaks with a slight British accent, acquired from devouring Monty Python movies as a child.

I think a lot about time—its constant churning. Every moment is another moment’s future yet also another moment’s past.  There’s a Kierkegaard quote about how life can only be understood in backwards glances. I think there is truth in that and find myself retracing memories often, looking to connect the dots that have sent me spiraling into the present.

My lungs heave like the sails of horizon ships and I know it’s time to go, know it’s time to pack the brushes and the christmas lights, the cast-iron pots and the framed pictures of letters you wrote me from the other side of this continent, know it is time to leave this small snowglobe of a hamlet, to unroll pavement like long lines of fruit-by-the-foot for tasting. I’ve starred constellations of cities on the worldmap beating against my rib cage and still don’t know what accent I will speak my tomorrows in...

It was the night of the potluck. I’d brought an onion, two bell peppers and an armful of street-vendor tomatoes for vegetarian fajitas, and you brought a maroon-stained hookah and a Cheshire grin. You lived near Atocha, the great intersection of this city. Your apartment loomed marble-columned and brass-gold railing with two entry doors with locks and a man sitting at the front desk. The rest of us lived in small, shoddy apartments that barely stretched five floors into the cloudless Spanish sky...

Winter makes me miss my Grandfather which makes me sad which makes me want to write things about him. He loved the holidays, loved sitting at the head of a dinner table laid with Texas toast and gumbo, loved surprising me with gifts of books and angel ornaments. He loved a good fire and swaying in his wooden rocking chair. He loved his daughters and he loved his wife. When he was a pilot in the Air Force, he named his plane after her: Gloria Dawn.

Three-point-three million dots breathing paint onto the canvas of this city. Their colors change, the setting too. Lights on, lights off. A sun yolky and solitary. Rain. Clouds like wisps of cotton candy that don’t exist in Europe only in memory. Penelope Cruz as a dot. Javier Bardem, the homeless man who plays the harp on the red line. A clap of thunder. The emptying of the lake in the park. New water. Boats for paddling. Tourist 1 posing for a picture in front of el Prado...