The blinds were open and a little bit of moonlight poured in and the curve of your shoulder gleamed. I could see the few scars over your back and the one long one that curled around your side. A smile itched at my face remembering the pride in your voice when you told me the story behind it.
There were many stories you had lined up, on the tip of your tongue ready to set them free. You had that way with words: making each one bigger and more special than they perhaps really were. You had that way with people, too. Letting us feel like we were the only one in the room, the only one worth talking to. I know you had you reasons, I know you thought no one should feel like they were the background. I know you too often felt that way.
And I think maybe if we were different. Maybe if we were in another time, another world, as two other people. Maybe if I didn’t want so much and you weren’t so broken. There’s a long list of maybes that I could drown in. We could get it right if we had more time. We could fit together if it were the beginning once again. It’s a shame we’re in the middle of our stories though, and it’s a shame you can’t conjure enough words and I can’t dream big enough for them.
You never woke up no matter how much noise I make, so I dressed just the same and didn’t worry about the zippers or the buckles being too loud. Even with shuffling down the hall with my hands full, I knew you wouldn’t wake up to it. You never woke up to me.
I watch the sad door frowning at me and the drooping windows get further away. For a moment I look through and I can see the shine of your skin, and the despair in your face. And for a moment I wish for so many things that I get dizzy and I turn around and feel the impossible heartbreak.
As I move away from the past and away from you, I try not think about what you’ll do with that torn out piece of paper. I try not to think about how you’ll run your long fingers over the ink. I try not to think about how you’ll fold it neatly, like you care, and put it in your wallet. I try not to think about your lips forming every letter into every word. I try not to hear your voice saying exactly what I wrote. I try not to hear you say: Maybe in another life.