It’s No Longer The Season Of You And Me

You laid the map of your heart on my dining table and joked about how the cartography of your veins almost makes it look like the road is kissing your house and mine in the same breath. I responded with mumbles like “haha,” “cool,” and “yeah right” because I couldn’t bring myself to tell you how crazy I was about you. The truth was that I wanted to be a part of everything that had to do with you, and the truth was a lump in my throat threatening to cut off my breath if I didn’t spit it out. But you didn’t notice and simply continued on, saying, “When I first met you, I had a feeling we were going to be good friends.” And I wondered if you could hear the sound of my bones hitting the floor, because falling apart usually makes a sound.

Remember that time when your new someone told you that she loved you for the first time? You got into your car and came to my place. You told me all about how her eyes twinkled when she said it, how her cheeks flushed red when she looked at you after. You said you can’t handle it because it had only been four months. “It’s too soon for the season of love”—those were your exact words.  I pointed to the mountain of fallen leaves outside my window and told you it wasn’t.  You shook your head and talked about the weather, how summer is too clingy and how the heat smothered every good memory it could lay its hands on. I was biting my cheek till I tasted the iron in my blood, and I wondered if you could see the bleeding, because blood usually seeps through a broken heart.

To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop writing poems about you, but I imagine it’ll be the moment you stop reaching for your car keys when she tells you she loves you. You’ll cling to her words, and you won’t mind if the happy memories smothered you to death. You’ll know the way to her like the cartography on the back of your hand, and eventually you’ll learn that “I love you” is the easiest sentence to say. So what the hell? You’re already starting to forget the route to my house anyway.

I write because it’s the only way I know how to express myself.

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