paper rings (l.h.)

40

"Did you always write poetry?" He asked, bringing the orange flame of his lighter to the tip of the joint. It was dark now, nearly midnight, but the streets were alive. I hadn't seen a night as noisy as this one, the sound of cars passing by just a few feet away drowned out any bird or cicada. I missed that about back home, but I didn't say it out loud.

We sat in silence most of the ride home, once the shock had set in, mixed with the need for a second or two of stillness. He was like me in that way, thriving in the quietness. I held his hand the entire way home, wondering what it would look like with my ring on his left hand.

We had dodged the texts, calls from loved ones who we hadn't spoken to in years, I was surprised to see my phone dinging as well. Mostly cousins, old friends, family friends... I wasn't too excited to respond back to them, since no one bothered to mention it was my birthday as well.

Not that it mattered much to me, anyway.

"I prefer writing stories," I say after debating whether or not I'd grant him access to that piece of me. My stories were for my own viewing, often causing me to read and reread my stories, as an attempt to reconnect with the characters I had created. I hadn't opened anyone up to that side of me yet, but Luke didn't scare me anymore. I was his open book. "Nothing too long, or complicated. I wouldn't even call them good..." I ramble, watching as he inhales the first drag. "But I used to write until my hand cramped up."

"Huh," he asks, handing me the joint and watching as I take a small hit, not half as much as Luke's, but enough to cause a coughing fit. He reaches over to rub his hand on the exposed skin of my back, gently patting as he hands me the water bottle he brought out knowing that we'd probably find some use for it. I unscrew the top as I soothe my burning throat with the lukewarm water. "How come I've not asked you this before?"

I shrug, watching how he takes a step closer to the balcony, leaning down at the narrow, but long backyard he had taken great care of landscaping, or his landlord did. There was a fire pit, a few chairs circling it. Tiki torches, a grill and picnic table. Not to mention the sweet scent of his flowers as the breeze carried it to our noses. I could see myself slowly taking over the back corner, planting enough produce to fill our pantry, and the rest of his bands'.

I see a future with Luke, whether it be here, or there. I hadn't felt so secure in years.

"Would you read it to me?"

I scoff, looking away from him as I once again repeat my turn, my eyes beginning to burn as the cool breeze blew into them, and in my hair. "I guess I could, considering that I have made you play the piano countless times."

"I would do it whether or not anyone was listening," he chuckles. "But I especially like playing for you."

I stand up, placing the joint back into his hands before walking up the stairs to my still-packed carry on. I pull the neglected journal from the bottom of my pile, leather-bound and worn. I brought this book, as well as a few others, just in case Luke wanted to use some of my words for his songs.

I hadn't sat down and created something new since before Luke walked into my life. But I wrote with sorrow, with such pain. I sat down on the chair behind him, Luke turns around to finish the joint, his cheeks hollowing around it.

I clear my throat before I begin the first chapter, feeling his eyes take in every inch of me. I felt them study my lips, study my eyes as it moved from one word to the next — I wanted to hide behind my journal. Have him forget that I ever offered to show him. My heart beat out of my chest. I read every word that I wrote when I was my most vulnerable, during the better days and the worst. I kept turning the page, the chapter lasted forever it felt like.