I never felt so wicked as when I willed our love to die
So we sit at a table, it’s round. We sit at a round table.You and me. You are silent. I feel sad. Sadness, pouring like water from a broken sink. You smile every 5 minutes. It makes me angry. The light is dim. I finish my last cigarette. Then I cry. Your face is now expressionless. I never ask. They never tell. I lay barefoot on the floor, but my feet don’t actually touch the floor. This is how love sometimes feel. Correction – infatuation. I sit on the floor next to you. You don’t move. We don’t touch. I am a broken sink. You get wet. I laugh. It does hurt. I am a middle school girl. I wear white socks and ponytails. I paint my nails during class. I never forget about you. I write your name in sparkling pink. Right next to mine. I draw what I imagine to be your heart on my left palm. I press my palm against my chest. I sigh. But your heart is dark blue. At least that’s how you like to think of it. We look at each other. My palms are dirty and sweaty. My confession takes the shape of glittery bones. We carefully live the life is expected from us. You’re in front of me. There’s the round table again. We’re not in middle school anymore. But my heart still feels stupidly pink. And yours – stubbornly dark blue.