You.

You, with your beatbox smile, waiting behind my eyelids when I’m alone. As a sixteen year old who thinks he can do better, or a nineteen year old who has never felt worse. You, standing in the rain, not sure whether to get into my car. A kiss on your cheek, and then I went home and cried myself to sleep. “I’m in love with you.” You, a tiny spark of hope in the constant, numbing muddiness of my life. The thought of your hands all over her, of her mouth around you, of you enjoying her. Did you think about me? You grew your hair out because I told you to. All you wanted was me in a pencil skirt, but I couldn’t even give you that. I remember you sitting on my couch, looking around at everything in my room. You said “I didn’t know what your room would look like, but now that I see it, it’s perfect.” I should have sat down next to you and touched you and never ever stopped. And after three years of not even knowing that you were all I needed, your lips on mine. The very real risk of me fainting right there in your breathless arms. Locking myself in my room, I still feel the ghost of your lips pressed into my neck. And maybe one day I’ll never have to wake up without you again. You. And me. We’re good together, but maybe we’re better apart.