AM Commemorations by Anonymous
It’ s two in the morning, and I owe you an apology. As you wait on the tile floor barefoot beneath me, I step down the sod carpet staircase. Your hands grasp my waist, too reverently. It reminds me of when we’ d wade through the river. We’ d jump rocks as we jumped years. The water clearing the mud and sweat from our feet, we always used to talk about hiking the mountains, but never did. When we floated on your basement couch. The tapestry swimming above us, the pipe lounging on the wicker table, you said you loved me, and I said it back. You would always drive to my house after a fight, even when I didn’ t want you to. I told you that I wasn’ t good for you, but you wouldn’ t listen. It’ s three thirty and the wind is blowing the plastic blinds back and forth. We’ re linked together like puzzle pieces, and I’ ve never told you I can’ t fall asleep with your arms around me. That I cried in the bathroom afterwards. That I met someone else while you were away. It’ s four thirty in the morning, and I’ m sorry.
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