I used to make you promise you’d tell your kids about me one day, and you’d roll your eyes and tell me to fuck off, but what you really wanted to say was, “Why do you always do this?”
"This?“ I’d tilt my head like I didn’t already know.
And you’d say, “Yeah, this. You find little ways to remind me you don’t plan on sticking around.”
On days like that, I’d kiss you just to shut you up, and you’d let me. You always let me. Teeth and tongue frantic to translate nothing into something. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a whisper against the skin of my thigh: “I’ll take what I can get.” Translation: you’re on thin ice or I love you. Usually both.
And on days like that, I’d drag you to the car and drive until the sun set on some town we’d never heard of. Pull off the road and fool around like teenagers tip-toeing at the edges of something more. We’d eat at whatever mom n’ pop shop we could find, and on the way back, we’d sing old Frankie Valli songs, hitting notes only dogs could hear, laughing so hard I could hardly control the wheel. You’d say, “God, I love this.“ “This,” I’d realize hours later, sounded a whole lot like “you.”
And on days like that, I’d pick a fight for no reason. A comment about that Halloween party two years ago was usually a good start. Your mother, if I was feeling particularly cruel. Sometimes you’d fall into the trap, and then you’d say something horrible enough to allow me to leave for the night. Hook, line, sinker. But then, oh God, then there were the times you knew me too well. Hands in my hair. On my back. Tracing the line of my spine. You’d say, “Just stop. Stop being afraid of this.”
And on days like that, I loved you. I’d make coffee and eggs the next morning and scoff when you asked what I’d done with your girlfriend. We’d eat in bed bare naked and watch the morning news, ragging on the rigid politicians for building such a broken world. Inevitably, we’d trade hypotheticals. What if we were in charge. What if we knew a damn thing about anything. What if we could make this last. Later, you’d drag me close, my ear to the thump of your heart. The sound like a song playing in the apartment upstairs.
If you make good on your promise, I hope you tell them about days like that. Every laugh and sigh and long night of too much wine. I hope they listen with wide eyes. Your eyes. Or hers, I guess. It doesn’t really matter. Here’s what matters: that you tell them about this. That even if we don’t end up together, I still have a place in your story.
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
prguitarman
romaincrisis
dededos
vaporwave
snowghoul
