When I was sixteen, I fell in love for the first
time.
I was newly single, and living in the aftermath
of the promise I made myself to stop making
homes out of people.
But he was warm. Dressed to kill in motorcycle
jacket, and blue eyes I would soon find myself
searching for my own reflection in.
And God, was he nice.
He shook my father's hand when
they met, called him 'sir' even though
I told him not to.
And he memorized my coffee order,
reciting it to the barista with no
regard as to how embarrassingly
long it was.
I met his family (1 mom, 1 dad, and a kid brother).
His pets (2 dogs, and a kitten).
I knew which drawer in their kitchen had the good cutlery, and I knew what movie his parents had watched on their first date.
In retrospect, I would have never guessed that it's
the little details
that would be the death of me.
Because 2 years had passed-
and the pictures were deleted, and
after all the notes we would pass one another
in the halls were ripped up and thrown out of
my bedroom window-
I was left with the sound of his mom's laugh at the dinner table. How the leather seats in his car burned
my thighs when he would drive me home after class.
How the sheets in his bed felt underneath my fingers.
-
I'm twenty-four now, and there are days I will still find
my mind working it's way back to him somehow. Like
muscle memory, and I can't help but wonder what
memories of me he might keep.
And whether or not he wishes,
(wishes as badly as I do)
to never forget.
YOU ARE READING
THE THINGS I THOUGHT AND THE THINGS I SHOULD HAVE SAID
PuisiHere's a collection of what went through my mind during all the curveball moments in my life. I've never been good at speaking up when it actually counts, so. Consider this my apology.
