manuel of la brea

77

burying the hatchet

We were burying the hatchet until I called you mine. I never wanted love, and it wasn’t a big deal last December 9th, but you thought I meant every word, just like every story told with your eyes full of stars. I loved to hear them and anything about politics, but have you ever heard of love? I never wanted love, and you thought love was a playful thing that people desired. And sometimes, I didn’t even know why I should feel it. I just wish I was also included in your dreams.

We were burying the hatchet when you became my sweetest home. And this feeling—the feeling I should’ve disregarded—made me so scared that I might suddenly put my lips on yours. It made me nervous to think of catching your name with my tongue. And I was covered with the pain of winter, but you asked me, “Have you ever thought of spring?” And I never looked back again as I watched you hold my hand forward.

We were burying the hatchet, and it was the reason you cried that night. And we never wanted love—only an arm to hold the immense pain or a ring on a finger like an accretion disk. Then I noticed that the tone of the messages had changed, and I was confused because you were chasing another star. But we were vulnerable creatures, and because of the spinning of events, it caught me off guard. I didn’t even comprehend those words you said from time to time, enjoying the whole revolution. On the 11th of May, you asked me, “Have you ever thought of us?” And I believed you were the one.