A Book I'm Going to Write
Walks
I memorized the way it felt to walk from his front door back to my own.
The sound of my suede boot heels and the chill of changing seasons are etched on my brain.
Every part of me opened up on those walks. My chest rose triumphantly with every deep inhale, my fingers instinctively touching my parted lips to cling to any trace of your last, longing kisses against the front door, against the stairs, against your front gate, against the wall where your bike sat. Every kiss and detail from the hours before carved into the chapped crevasses of my mouth.
Sometimes you'd walk with me. Those days were the best.
I'd sneak glances at you, your hair dancing up and down as you strode down the sidewalk.
I loved that we shared a secret, the fact that no one around us knew about our adventures and disclosures from the night before. Only we would ever know.
I'd walk through the front door feeling euphoric. No ounce of regret in my body, no trace of embarrassment for the cheetah spots on my little dress or the string thin width of my blouse straps on a winter morning.
"I feel like no matter what you wear, you don't care what people think. You're just confident."
You said that to me on our last walk together, my last walk from your front porch.
I didn't realize at that moment, but that sentiment would stick with me weeks later.
I don't think I even smiled when you said it. It must not have registered.
All I could think was, I didn't want to say goodbye, not to you, not to these walks- these mornings, not to our nights. But here we were, walking five blocks straight towards the end.
And we paused on the corner, right across from my little townhouse, knowing but not acknowledging that this would be where we had and would part ways.
"Just one more," you said. We never kissed on our walks, only before them. They were never goodbye kisses, only continuations of the night before. But this was goodbye and we both knew it, but didn't acknowledge it, so we kissed on the corner of G and 23rd, five blocks from your front stoop, across the street from my townhouse. And I didn't realize at that moment, but that kiss would stick with me weeks later. Those walks would replay in my head.
Maybe it's because our time started with a long walk home. Maybe it is simply me trying to romanticize the act of putting one foot in front of the other as someone you adore does just the same beside you. But even now, weeks later, millions of miles away from your front stoop, I know.
It was never a walk of shame, those five blocks.
The sound of my suede boot heels and the chill of changing seasons are etched on my brain.
Every part of me opened up on those walks. My chest rose triumphantly with every deep inhale, my fingers instinctively touching my parted lips to cling to any trace of your last, longing kisses against the front door, against the stairs, against your front gate, against the wall where your bike sat. Every kiss and detail from the hours before carved into the chapped crevasses of my mouth.
Sometimes you'd walk with me. Those days were the best.
I'd sneak glances at you, your hair dancing up and down as you strode down the sidewalk.
I loved that we shared a secret, the fact that no one around us knew about our adventures and disclosures from the night before. Only we would ever know.
I'd walk through the front door feeling euphoric. No ounce of regret in my body, no trace of embarrassment for the cheetah spots on my little dress or the string thin width of my blouse straps on a winter morning.
"I feel like no matter what you wear, you don't care what people think. You're just confident."
You said that to me on our last walk together, my last walk from your front porch.
I didn't realize at that moment, but that sentiment would stick with me weeks later.
I don't think I even smiled when you said it. It must not have registered.
All I could think was, I didn't want to say goodbye, not to you, not to these walks- these mornings, not to our nights. But here we were, walking five blocks straight towards the end.
And we paused on the corner, right across from my little townhouse, knowing but not acknowledging that this would be where we had and would part ways.
"Just one more," you said. We never kissed on our walks, only before them. They were never goodbye kisses, only continuations of the night before. But this was goodbye and we both knew it, but didn't acknowledge it, so we kissed on the corner of G and 23rd, five blocks from your front stoop, across the street from my townhouse. And I didn't realize at that moment, but that kiss would stick with me weeks later. Those walks would replay in my head.
Maybe it's because our time started with a long walk home. Maybe it is simply me trying to romanticize the act of putting one foot in front of the other as someone you adore does just the same beside you. But even now, weeks later, millions of miles away from your front stoop, I know.
It was never a walk of shame, those five blocks.