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I’ve always had a taste for tart flavored things,

Ever since I discovered mustard as a young girl.

I fell in love with how the right amount of tartness danced on my tongue,

and sent goosebumps up and down my spine.

As I’ve gotten older, tart has become more bitter,

Just like my rotten, young bones.

Tart, I thought, has always been a personal favorite,

Then again, heartbreak has always been too.

-A.H.

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I want to be the kind of woman who will write stories about us.

I’ll share with the world how I was captivated by your blue eyes, your rough hands, and your lonely, misunderstood heart.

I’ll talk about the times we would go without talking to each other, until we crossed paths again and mouthed the words, I miss you.

I want to be the kind of woman who will write stories about us.

I’ll endlessly ramble about the times we made love, our naked bodies invisibly bruised and scarred with each other’s kisses and touches.

I’ll express how much we breathlessly poured I love you’s into each other’s mouths, how we really did care about each other in our own ways, and the way we made each other feel.

I want to be the kind of woman who will write stories about us,

That if we do end up together, I’ll read them aloud to you so you remember them by heart.

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My phone lit up with your name again, and there an inevitable statement was on clear and bright on my screen,

"If I’m still yours."

Was I ever yours? How am I yours? I question these thoughts without hesitation. Were all my kisses and touches and love making I’ve given you for six years, yours?

"Because I love you."

You tell me another inevitable and questionable statement, because deep down I do too, and then again I don’t believe it when you tell me.

No.

I wasn’t asked to be yours, and you never asked to be mine; we just assumed we were each others.

I am mine, and mine alone. We’re just two souls passing through, unfit to actually love or learn to love each other

Mine, yours. Yours, mine.

Never.

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I’ve memorized how your hands feel around my waist, on my face, and between my legs.

I know the exact imprint of your lips on my lips; how they taste and even feel on my body.

Skin to skin, you’ve been inside me… or maybe even, I’ve been inside you. Sex is a glorious thing, and I’ve found my God.

I know your secrets, and you know mine. I once heard that we are all looking for someone who’s demons play well with ours, and well, I found you without even trying.

I can’t see myself with anyone but you.

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Dreams for Plans

In the back of my mind, I like to think we will always run into each other at different times of our lives. In five years, I'll be coming home for the holidays, and you'll be here being the English teacher you've always wanted to be.

I'll find your class room, and peer in through the door, smiling that dorky smile you've etched on my face for years. You'll see me peering, and excuse yourself from class, and we'll converse briefly about our lives and set an evening to go out to dinner.

We'll be at dinner, and we'll catch up some more, finding out that we're both not currently in relationships because they're messy and we haven't found that special someone.

We'll go back to your place, where our passion will collide and burn. The I love you's will actually mean something, the love we've had for each other for years will be permanent.

I'll wake up the next morning in your arms, and see your blue eyes light up with rich warmth and love. I'll smile back at you, because we'd both know that we are each other's someone.

A.H.