The first
time you told me that you loved me I knew it wasn’t true. I
read each word from a glass phone screen through squints at 11 pm
and no resentment or confusion surpassed the excitement embedded
in each of my muscles. I knew you were young and you were naive
and you weren’t experienced enough to know that love
wasn’t simply a minor fascination with another human being.
I wanted to show you what love felt like when it was screamed at
3 am. I wanted to let you be there when our affection splashed
out of the puddles we jumped in, or when it ran down your face
like your tears the night that we watched The Notebook on your
mothers couch. I wanted our adoration to be bright enough to tan
our skin in winter and I wanted our passion to pool like the
blood behind the skin on my cheeks when you kissed me for the
first time. I wanted to be the last one you ever assumed to be in
love with merely because my eyes smiled at yours or because you
liked how my skin smelled like vanilla. And judging by the
booming echo your heart made when it cracked the day I walked
away, I succeeded.
r.m.
