I often remember
the day we were left
with my house to ourselves
and the time that we had.
And the things that we did
and the things that we said.
Words I will remember
until I am dead.
Words that did not make me feel afraid.
Words that gave me hope. Words that you gave
to me like birthday presents.
I guess a new part of me was born that day.
It would make sense.
And the days afterwards.
In school.
We were good at keeping quiet until the right time came
for us to open like flowers in the morning light.
At the end of the night.
And that was cool.
Even now, as adults, you hold my hand.
Stopping the water from pulling me under.
And even in the darkest times I smile because I understand
that we have each other.
And you won't leave me for another.
And one day I say;
"I love you."
And to which you reply
that you love me too.
YOU ARE READING
Together
PoesíaOne + one = two. Life = me + you. Stereotypical love = lie. Our love = true.