The night I dreaded already came before he first kissed me.
I believe I was putting a batch of fresh clothes away. I believe I caught a glance of the window, my room’s window that has been loyal to me even during the months I hated its view. I believe I remembered the glowing buildings which didn’t dare touch me in your presence. And I believe I couldn’t remember your face.
I panicked and started crying. I frantically sent a message to a friend about what was happening, maybe hoping that if I started talking about you, I would hold on a little longer to the wound that kept death away.
I once wrote that even in the midst of that muted thundershower and under those pristine bed sheets, death did not knock.
He’s starting to get real clever this time.
Boy, do I want to talk about it in detail. It has been quite awhile since I felt that way. And I do have a certain fondness for quite awhile’s. A certain appreciation for never thinking it could happen again. But with that, doesn’t the oh no’s come as well?
The: Oh no, here we go again.
I used to use “he” with you during a period I was talking about the “you” at that time. I don’t know when I started using “you” for you. Not exactly. But I knew it was when we moved past falling apart into the certainty of being over.
Now, you are still “you.” But now, there is a “he” again.
His kisses come with questions
I keep wanting to ask back.