“Will you ever write about me?”
The sentence trickles out of your mouth with that same, stupid, goofy smile I’ve grown way too excited about seeing. Whether it’s over from the screen of my smudged phone while we FaceTime from the bar, or from behind a pillow at hour in the morning where we both should be sleeping. That smile makes my heart believe in things I’d once forgotten about. That smile is too much.
So there you are, asking questions I don’t have the answer to but the grin on your face makes me want to tell you anything that will keep you around, even if just for a second.
“Have you written anything about me?”
There are so many stories in my head. Some about what has already happened, some about what I wish would. I’ve painted pictures of how you made me melt the first time you said, “You’re here,” to me as I stepped in your direction. I could write a novel filled with what would happen were there not miles separating us.
I’ve started so many paragraphs, so many essays, so many things about you and just stopped. Not for lack of trying, because I write about you every night when there’s only one glass of wine on my table where there should be two. Not for lack of inspiration, because you are what muses are made of. It’s because of a lack of confidence.
I’ve put off immortalizing you in saying what I have to say because once I do, you’re no longer mine. It’s putting you out into the world to be poetry for someone else. And as long as I keep you in my head, no one else can touch us.
Even when there is nothing to touch.
Even when there is no us.
Because darling, I know you’re a work of art. I know that I could write sonnets about how it felt when you held me and songs about the way you grabbed my face with both hands when you kissed me for the first time. I know that I could come up with metaphor upon metaphor for how at home it was to finally hold you close and I know that I would never be bored of describing the way your skin felt against mine.
But I don’t.
And I don’t because once I do, that’s it.
I know I’m holding off on penning those poems, finalizing those fantasies, or hitting publish on those pages because you aren’t here. You’re behind texts and unbooked plane tickets and not holding my hand or pouring your own glass of Pinot Grigio. You’re far away instead of within reach; a phone call away but still away. You’re past highways and speeding tickets, instead of rolling over in my bed from across 600 sq ft and shooting that stupid, stupid smile in my direction.
I’m holding off on making you a story because once I do, you’re no longer mine.
And I so, so wish you were mine.
“What are you writing? Is it about me?”
For the time being, no. Someday I’ll write about you. I’ll write about the words I swallowed down instead of whispering them into your ear and the things you did to my body and my heart that made me want to believe that people are good and that you still care about me.
But not today.
Today I’m keeping you hidden. Today I’m keeping you behind closed doors. Today I’m keeping you under lock and key and close to a heart that you never knew you had.
That you never even asked for.
No, today I am keeping you mine.