five hundred and sixty five: nineteen of thirty
Today I keep remembering the moment before we kissed
with frightening accuracy. I can’t remember the kiss itself,
like I’ve worn that memory out until it stopped being real.
But the moment before, all that nervous laughter,
the clean reality that became broken, strained by affection
and attraction, that feels so current, still.
Have you heard about the continuum of time? History is weird
and hard to understand. I go back and forth between
we-were-soul-mates and we-were-nothing
regularly, and I can say that both theories may be true.
So, what if it’s not this continuous thing unfolding?
Didn’t someone say once that you had to unlove someone
for as long as you loved them? Maybe this is that story in reverse,
my lonely heart to my loving heart to my hammering pre-kiss heart
to my lonely heart. Like clockwork. Like today. Like whatever,
six months ago, or who cares.
The point is, there isn’t. Unloving is not the opposite of loving.
For all its worth, I keep falling asleep with the feel of your arm
across my waist and the memory, the hope, the wish, the regret:
you’re going to kiss me, you’re finally going to kiss me. And you do.
And you did.