I worry. That he won’t miss me.
That he’ll go about his life, and I’ll go about mine, and somehow, they just won’t fit together anymore.
That the beautiful words we’ve embroidered into each other’s hearts will fray, that we’ll render them meaningless, like the air between us was never heavy with longing for that next perfect sentence.
Sometimes, I worry that I won’t feel the dance of his gentle fingertips on my skin. The brushing of his lips against mine. The way he smiles in to the kiss.
That he won’t be there at 2am. Or 2pm.
That his name will taste bitter in my mouth. As if my eyes never sparkled when I said it.
That the raging sun that once set before us, fingers entwined, will set upon us.
That the beautiful flowers he buys me will wilt one last time, and that we’ll walk past each other in the street, and he’ll pretend he hasn’t seen me. Like his eyes had never trapped mine with such fervent favor. Like it wasn’t ever me, wrapped up in his naked limbs as darkness settled.
Sometimes, I lay awake and I recolour my universe as if he weren’t there.
The deafening silence of the night.