Cinnamon, Blueberries, & Other Subjects to fill a Book of Poetry

Reese

     "How can you say that? Where is this coming from? You never complain about anything. you hardly say anything, and then suddenly you're saying 'feelings change?!' What does that even mean? Why can't you just talk to me? I swear, it feels like I've been throwing my heart at a brick wall painted orange for months now, Angel. I knew it might break, but I thought maybe you'd let me in. I thought I- you- we could be something. Something wonderful. Don't you want that too?"

The crack in his voice almost gets me. Almost. I'd die a million times before I let him see me cry. Not him. Not Sam. Only him, I think, only Sam would, in a fit of passion and rage, manage to spin those emotions into something that stupid and abstract while also telling me exactly how he feels. Exactly how he feels without saying the simple words. Everything he does is complicated. He's Sam, he was probably born spouting poetry and prose and saying everything and nothing and making the poor nurses swoon. Only Sam. Sam, with his poetry and his words and the wonderful way he strings them together where I feel I could listen to him talk for the rest of my life. Not Sam, with his hands and his goddamn freckles that I've kissed a hundred times and his grey eyes that get that 'ocean after a storm' look when he wants something, wants me, and I make him wait. Not Sam with his patience and his gentleness and his nicknames and his fucking glasses that are too big for his handsome face. Sam, who walked me home every night for a month after hearing about the alley, who never once invited himself up even though I knew he wanted to. Sam, who waited. Who knows my coffee order by heart and has never once complained about how complicated it is and how I always make him order it just so I can watch him remember. Remember me. Sam, who loves my stupid shaggy hair. Who loves my crop tops. Who loves how I always smell like oil and insists on kissing me right after work even though I've lectured him on how gross that is. Sam, who remembers me. Sam, who loves me. He's never said it. He's done everything short, actually, and I know that's all my fault. I know he's been dying to say it. I know he hasn't, because of me. But he doesn't need to say it because I know. And, shit, I love him too. I love him so much it hurts and I can't help but want to ask if this is how he has felt this entire time. And, then I realise he's waiting for me to answer. And, I realise I should tell him this. I should tell him all of it. Tell him I love him. Tell him how sorry I am and how I didn't mean it and how I'm just. so. scared. Because I know I'm messing everything up for him and I know he doesn't care, but I also know he does and if he doesn't then I care about it for him. I know I should tell him. I need to tell him. But the words get stuck in my throat as I go to say them and all that comes out is,

      "Why does the wall have to be orange?"

The way he deflates breaks my heart and I know he's been feeling this.

      "You- what??" He manages, after what seems like a strenuous amount of effort. I can see the way his left eye twitches, the way it does when he's running on empty. When he's feeling miserable. I've seen it, when he has a deadline coming up at work for a shit article and can't bring himself to start it until the day of. Or, when we'd go out with his co-workers and they'd make snide comments or try to set him up with a girl. I wanted to punch them for that. For making him feel like that. Maybe I should punch myself.

      "Why is the wall orange?" I repeat, balling a fist in my pocket and digging my nails into my palm. I know why. He knows too. Orange is my favourite colour. Even mad at me he remembers so much and he loves me so much and god I love him so much that I just want to scream. Maybe it's because my standards are low but I don't even care because Sam is so much better than my standards, he's so much better than everything else in this shit town, he's just so much better. He gives me a look, distant and confused and fucking broken, and I want to cry. I might cry. No. I won't. I take a step

      "S-"

His phone goes off. His fucking phone! of all the times. And, he answers it. I can't believe he answers it. I can, actually, and I know it's because of me which is so much worse. He never would before, he didn't even glance at it when it rang before. But now.. I basically just fucking told him I don't want any more of this. Any more of him. Any of that wonderful future he envisioned for us. But I do and I should tell him and I want to but I choke on the words and I just know I might cry. I hear him say something, muffled and far off beyond my panic, but one thing cuts through clear as day.

      "-Goodbye, Reese."

And, all I can think as he walks away is 'shit.' Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I hear the door closed.

And, then I cry.