It would take me a while to loosen the buttons on you pea coat that night; my fingers, more clumsy than usual. It wouldn't be funny later, either. You smelled like cigarettes and rubbing alcohol; you tasted like my chapstick. Stale.
I didn't want to damn you right away, with my first, second, and third impressions. I figured that, if I avoided jumping to conclusions then, I wouldn't have to feel guilty about all the mean things I'd most likely write about you later. I've got this nervous compulsion to make jokes when nothing should be funny.
I sat on the floor and cried to you about how all my old notebooks were falling apart. You called me a baby, and I shot you a look so cold, you nearly froze to death right where you stood. Sometimes I wish you had.
It takes so much courage to still believe…I used to really care about people and how their bodies hurt. But now, instead of feeling sorry all the time…they told me it wasn't my fault (this time). I'd really love to believe that.
I don't understand why you turned out the lights, when you could've just closed your eyes. Then you blew out all my candles…'just like birthday cake,' you said. You made me so angry…at least you can close your eyes. When I close mine, I hear bones breaking.
It's a real shame I can't fucking communicate…I've still got the bruises you gave me on my wrists, from the last time the sun went out. It wasn't your fault (that time)-I shouldn't have hollered. You wouldn't have had to restrain me if I hadn't been standing in your doorway, kicking and screaming and clawing at the pearls that kept me graceful. I think it's really funny how I did that…
I never used to lock doors, before you. We used to feel safe, even without our walls…we were stupid to think nothing could go wrong with this production. We could've been great, but we forgot…it's a shame you can't publish a sentence, love. I'm almost certain it could have been a bestseller.
We stood there, hip to hip; you choking on your tongue, me with my eyes on the floor. It's amazing, how long you can spend staring at your shoes, when you can't make conversation…proof that love's not only blind, but deaf.
I guess the one thing you could say I've learned from all this is that you can't put your arms around a memory.