April 11, 2025

I think about you all the time you know. The way you laughed so hard it almost hurt my ears, the way you'd take my hand and lead me through the dark streets that used to terrify me, the way you didn't care, the way you cared so much, the way you hated, the way you loved. The way your lipstick would smudge your cigarettes, what you drank, what you ate, what you feared, from the most useless little details to all the wonderful truths of your complexity. I was a tiny mouse, you were like a tiger, and instead of eating me whole, you took me under your protective fire. I still don't know why, what you saw in me, I felt like a pebble staring at an iceberg, a fly admiring a butterfly. And yet you loved me, not like a goddess staring down at her disciple, but like a rare blooming flower loves the sun that feeds her. But you had so many suns, didn't you? Your hand in his, my heart in pieces, that's what I remember from that day. I wish I could hate you, still. I wish all that remained was that memory, so I could bury you under it. But instead, I think about your hand on my cheek, our bodies entwined, your feet kicking me under the table at the bar, about how much of that space you filled, I think about the smell of vanilla, your hands, how you'd smile at me form across the restaurant, how you didn't run when I crashed, how you stayed, even when I fell into the deepest pit. The sun on your hair at the hospital. Your face twisted with confusion and anger. Your hands. Your smile. The space you left when I ran.