It wasn’t enough to break me that you never made friends here in the States, that somewhere in North Carolina you were alone at night whispering bebecito into your phone, or that I fumed you in pot even after you asked me not to, yet still kissed me.

I didn’t crumble when you took me hiking and at the top of Crowder’s mountain asked, How can I already miss you?

Conversations were always funny with you, neither of us speaking each other’s language all too well but still capturing each other's hearts. I couldn’t catch my breath when I asked you, What’s your least favorite fruit? and with fists balled, you said, I hate Olive Garden!

I wasn’t shocked when you told me breakfast diners made you happiest, then took me to Waffle House the morning after our hike, knees weak at each other’s caps, joints rubbered together, hearts head over heels.

I could do this forever, but I already knew.

A week later I drove back to you and crashed in your bed, and you said, We will eat with each other so soon.

When I woke up that morning to your voice saying, Rest, I knew where you were going, what you were doing, and the food you planned to buy us. The Waffle House lady knew you by name, by face, by order, by day of the week, by hour, down to the minute.

It was your solo tradition, but this time she asked you, ¿Dónde está tu novio? when I didn’t show up.

I stayed in your bed, played fetch with the rock in my chest, fish gone hot out of water, asbestos stars wringing me dry.

It didn’t take long for the waffles to absorb their own sweat on the car ride home, all wrapped up in a caja para llevar, which you taught me because the server couldn’t understand my English.

I wasn’t hurt by the knowledge that one day I’d leave you, one day I’d have to say enough to the kindness of it all, to the man who’d give me the world that I wasn’t ready for.

That pain couldn’t crack me; I’ve made a home out of it.

What shattered me were the eggs, sunnyside smashed into hash browns, wet bacon that I couldn’t stomach, and damp waffles soaked in grease, a liquid bomb made to shrivel fingertips.

I said, Oh no, the waffles are soggy, when I opened the box and heard you ask, What does soggy mean?

It’s when something goes mush, gets soft, like your toes in a bath.

After I told you, the word left your lips in a whisper, a repetition beat into your skull.

I think, Noah, that I am soggy for you.

Zachery Noah Rahn (he/him) is a queer poet and essayist with a bachelor's in Writing & Linguistics from Georgia Southern University. He enjoys watching horror movies, rollerblading, and spending time with his friends. You can find his work in Alien Literary Magazine, Stone of Madness Press, mutiny! Magazine, and select other journals. Follow him on Twitter @zacheryrahn