Your breath was hot. I could write it in a hundred different ways; it was like a flame dangling above my skin, licking the hairs and droplets of sweat on my arm; it was like a tsunami rush of blood in the face after being embarrassed in front of middle school classmates; it was like a July heat—persistent even after nightfall, with the steady hum of crickets and summer cicadas.
Your breath was hot on my neck. Your breath so great in force sucked mine, and I was left breathless. The stars witnessed my naivety, my spirit, my mediocre love confession because exceptional would make you hide in the shadows of the flood field.
On the slab of cement we gazed out at the violet sky with a skyline composed of dark trees. In the drainage below us held cigarette butts, snapped pencils, and smashed beer cans. From a distance I thought I saw fireflies glowing in the night, dancing hand in hand atop the tall grass. You went to look and to my disappointment it was a piece of metal, just intensely reflected by the rounded moon. Just a beautiful illusion. Everything is beautiful from a distance.
Here you are, inches next to me on this slab of cement. I’ve always had a talent of trying to force my daydreams into reality. I tried to squeeze my daydreams into your little ball world, but there were no edges they could grab on to. You’re a finch I’m desperately trying to catch with my hands. Some nights I do, and it’s the closest I come to feeling your naked beating heart.
Elusive enigma, turning words into honey. I gulped down each spoonful like I had a sore throat (how could I have known it was poisoned)? You destroyed me—grappled and shook my mind with invisible hands until I was a foreigner in my own body. You created me—left in silence, a ghost, giving me the choice to die or thrive alone.