I’m afraid that I don’t really love you. Perhaps, I imagined the two of us pushing our legs near each other’s, under the dining room table. Your knees jutting into my thighs slightly shifting the fabric of my skirt. Sometimes, I think I’m afraid of the days that come after you.
What will happen a spring, a summer, and a winter from now? I’ll trace your laughter on to the frosted window pane in my parent’s car. I’ll dream up your face, where if only I reach out…you are real. You are wrapped in brown packing paper carrying sticky rice, with pieces of fried fish. One day, I laughed into the wisps of your hair. Smoke waltzed in and out of the kitchenette.
I waited by the stove just so I could be warm. I don’t know if I love you yet. A part of me awaits this sinking gut feeling where it hurts too much not to say a word.Yet, look at how our whirlwind never touched.
I really want to miss the backbone of you as you walk out. Yet, somehow deep down I know that it’s not worth crying over another brief moment in time. You cloud me into feeling sorry that I loved you.