I loved Jack and I loved books before we met and now we’ve met I love Jack more – the curve his spine makes, his crooked big toe, his translucent teeth, enamel-less, almost. And I love you too.
You were in place of him, so many evenings, mornings, days, and he didn’t text or have a chance to interject really, but he’s been quoting Nicholas Sparks at me, knows my weakness for Steve Martin, romantic comedies, Charles Bukowski. It feels like nothing connects when everything’s a version of something and everyone’s only a shade off another person and sometimes in name they’re a letter off: Chuck, Buck, Bick, Stick, Simon, Jimon, Jack, Mack.
I measure your outlines when you sleep with tape from my mum’s sewing box and you’re both exactly the same, not a millimetre out, in every dimension and I ask what you thought of The Notebook and you say, “The Lucky One’s better,” and I say I’ve not seen it and you say I should read so I read and I read and love Jack.