now listen, i still ask myself everyday, "what made me so blind?"
trust me to hypothesize;
perhaps it was the way you called my name, with a little authority and gentleness. it's beyond my poetic ability to explain the greatness behind this oxymoron.
no, i'm sure it was your great sense of description. be it of how wide my smile was or how defined my curls were or how bad you wanted to take me then and there at the back of my mother's house.
"what was stopping you from describing to me how bad you were going to wreck me?" i would later yell to myself on our supposed to be 3years anniversary.
i can almost swear that it was your therapeutic nature.
you must remember it too, the night i told you about Uncle Daniel and how he had defiled my only developing body. you rocked me till i fell asleep on our surprisingly not tear drowned couch.
you didn't push but the urgency in your eyes said it all, "who is Uncle Daniel?" is what i would later read.
what is this ending?
i wish my words were as numerous as the now present scars on my temple, your pride, my body.
the delight that i now feel in your absentia should be alarming, more so to you but perhaps what really would be the bone of contention here is "what made me so blind?"
