Saturday, February 14th, 2015
"Just you," I would whisper as I swept my eye lashes against his cheek, "just you."
The two roses remain weeping in the vase beside the sink, their petals crisp and currant. He gave me the first one on a warm and breezy summer evening. The weekend he moved out his things I took the train to Westchester to sit in the grass and look at the sky and try to put things into place. When I returned we met in Chinatown for dim sum; in his hand he clutched the crimson. He brought the second when he came by on New Year's Day. My bones buckled. I guess that was the point.
Lonely as I am, I don't want anybody else. I just want my friends to come home. Or my energy back. Or something. I don't know what I want. I swear I lost my body altogether in Wednesday night's wind.
I'm not the person I thought I'd be at twenty-one. But with a body I can't feel and a brain that's bemused, how am I to know what sort of person I might be at all?