when i asked

When I asked whether you would stay, you fumbled for words a little, nervously fluttered your hands and looked at the ground a certain way. I knew the answer already but asked again anyway, probing the expanding awkwardness that hung Damocles overhead. There was a target on my head, my back too, and I wanted to see if it’d hit its mark as cleanly as all the other times, so I was feeling reckless. I wanted to feel alive, I wanted to be disappointed, heartbroken even, to sip and enjoy and wallow, to feel that drop right as a rollercoaster plummets after cresting that first hill.

When I asked whether you would stay, you looked tired and beautiful, and I knew the thoughts were haphazard and sharp and well-rehearsed and that they’d hurt when given sound; I could almost hear the hum of them as you sat there with clenched hands nervously chewing your hair. Like balloons, some things grow until they find their needle. The thing they never tell you about the needle though is how beautiful it is, sharp, strong, beautiful and precise, infinite force in a tiny thing. You only hear about the balloon, complaining and taking up room; the needle sits there unexamined and uninterviewed. We should learn to ask the needle a thing or two, see whether it’s as sharp as we’ve heard, draws blood the same red.

When I asked whether you would stay, you were already gone. A hall of mirrors is still empty no matter how you look at it. You didn’t say much when you left, your soft scent lingered in the air and on the couch you slept on. I still find your hair golden and wound around and I think about how you’re doing. I think about the way you would curl up and looked at me sideways and softly chuckle, little secret-haver. A soft warm soul. I know you’re over there and I’m over here, and that’s that I guess, and yet the dust gathers and stuff gets shuffled around and your presence lingers. That’s that, I guess.