We sat in empty lecture halls and scared ourselves with our own futures, our words shaking like we had just caught a bad case of nervousness. I threw up xanax, I threw up fifth grade, I threw up three weeks worth of wanting to talk to you but being too scared to say anything, and once I came home to find you taking pictures of yourself in the mirror, and told me to show them to you if things ever started to look different. We drove home that night, and I passed away in the back seat, but you didn’t seem to mind. No, at two in the morning, things like these don’t even matter anymore, and I couldn’t stop talking and apologizing and telling you the truth for the first time since I met you, and you couldn’t stop listening, and when I reached over you refused me your hands because they were on the wheel and on the road and set on making sure I got home safely, and I realized then that you could do better, yes you could definitely do better, because, in other words, you sacrificed holding me then to make sure I’d still be there to hold tomorrow, and I just don’t think I could ever become that vulnerable.
Somewhere in the world, it’s October, and two people are kissing for the very first time. But those are two bodies we could never again become a part of. I knew you were drawn away from the concept of commitment the moment you started to re-button your jeans, and suddenly it all comes rushing back - the moon, the smashed plates, the phone bills we pretended didn’t exist because we didn’t know how to deal with them, let alone ourselves.
(this morning’s ashtray says
that you were up all night)