thank you

plans change without warning: you can’t stay for dinner or be here anymore. once more I feel pathetic having already bought ingredients. I am sitting on my bed and you are stretching on my floor. you did this the last time you were here. we'd woken up together for the last time. you were wearing my pyjamas and reached for my guitar to sing a song. my love is mine, all mine. the night before you'd called me yours. we were glowing and I told you that I loved this, that I loved being yours. I saw your heart in your eyes. you could have pulled mine from my chest and seen that they were beating for each other. you told me you had missed me. it had only been five days.

when you start to break this I ask if you could sit with me on the bed. I remember you saying how safe you felt here. afternoon sun is pouring through the windows over carpet over you. you let me catch your eyes and I wish you weren't so beautiful. 'I think we should stop...' of course. I ask when you knew that this was what you wanted. not long, maybe a couple of days. you say that it's not about me, or about us. you want to focus on other things. this has been lovely. we've had fun. but it's not what you need. a little too real or a little too much? you say the former though your choice implies the latter.

you ask me how I'm feeling. without knowing what to say we sit in silence and I do my best to smile. there's an offer to leave. I ask you to stay a little longer, knowing your departure means the end of our little misadventure. on my pillow I make you listen to the list of things I like about you and the way we were: your laugh, your scent, the way you made my people laugh, your singing voice, the dinners and the dancing and the other stuff I could almost swear felt sacred. remember when you asked me to never close to you. when we wrote each other poetry. when you danced for me. I love the way you would tell me your dreams and ask about mine. I love the characters we'd play together and apart. the secrets you shared and how you'd hold me when I'd let you see what I thought was ugly. the way you’d make me feel like I was something more than bones and dreams. your touch in the dark. the sound of my name on your tongue. you join in and tell me what you like and what you'll miss but I don’t want to hear it. how can this mean anything when you make the choice to close the door?

there are brief formalities: I return your locket in exchange for my tupperware. a transaction to wash away the people we've been. the little crocodile still hangs from your work bag, bought for you before we'd even met. you offer to give back the book but I plead you to keep it. and there is no way to switch off the care I feel for you. when you leave I will cry because we mattered, and you still do, and there is nothing you or I can do to change this. how many pools will I fill with these feelings when you're gone?

I tell you that I’ll miss you. you say you’ll miss me too. the last I see of you is in your helmet. the first time you saw me I was wearing mine. patterns in repeat. we hug until you let go and I thank you for your time.