This time

It’s worse than the emotion itself; having to pretend, sometimes, that none of this is happening. That these feelings aren’t real. Just everyday sensations jacked up on lust and passion. Most likely to settle back down once the excitement has receded. A smoldering pile of ash that will grow cold once our backs are turned.

The blade is dull, but it still manages to cut right through me. A cold wind from the north that refuses to accept winter is over. It’s always just around the corner, a hello or a goodbye. A selfish decision that has become the most beautiful of mistakes.

He asks me what I‘m thinking and I tell him. Like giving a stranger directions, or the time. And then I wait. For the cracks to form and the sky to fall. So certain I’ll lose him in the future. Counting my steps to a door that may never open.

There are many things he chooses to forget, I can only hope this will not be one of them.