A little something I wrote a while ago (not exactly one year ago).
Exactly one year ago, you told me you loved me. If I wrote one million stories for you, would you decide to love me again? It is a promise I am willing to make, if you will wait for me. It seems all I can think about is your hand cradling my face; it stings my cheek and all I have now are the uninvited tears to comfort my skin. Exactly one year ago, you asked me for proof of happy endings. I told you that once it ends, you will be happy; that if you’re not happy, it’s not over…it can’t be over. This whole house smells like dust and unwashed dishes. I hate that smell, yet I’m allowing it to become all too familiar to me. You used to serve me dinner from your parents’ expensive China, saying that they saved it for their most important guests. My god, do I miss your cooking. I miss you helping me clean, knowing that the only way I would ever move was with your motivation. All I ever do these days is sneeze and sleep. You used to come over in the mornings, just to watch me sleep in. Everything was fresh, then. You were afraid of touching me in my dormant state, “it would be like fixing something that looks too beautiful when broken.” I frequently questioned whether or not you truly believed I was better when broken. You would occupy your time with mending the ends of my veins, with your lips. But you are no longer captivated by a need to fix things. And I am not fixed. I often wonder if I was the reason your fascination ebbed. But how foolish I am to think things don’t need to change. Here I am offering you a regale of tales, when my heart no longer fits in your pocket. You have room now for someone else and I still refuse to sleep on your side of the bed. My right hip gets lonely when it expects your hand to cup it gently and the crevices between my fingers feel empty now that you’re not there to fill them. The threshold still anticipates your entrance and my tastebuds won’t let me forget your desserts. I wonder if your expensive China needs a fervent tongue to lick it clean or if the tips of your toes miss the company of mine. Does your face miss being cradled by my hand, when you wake up in a cold sweat and does the space you’ve made for someone new lack my warmth? I would write one million stories to have you fix me again. Exactly one year ago you told me that you love me, but we are not living in one year ago and I am running out of ink and paper.