I practice our conversations every night in my head. I tell you this is it, I’m tired of reminding you that I exist. I wait for you to say the words, all the ones that I want to hear (at this point, they’d be nearly anything). But instead, every night, you stand silent.
In your sleeping-embrace, I rolled over, onto my back, and turned to face you. In the creeping morning light, in a room of the house that you grew up in (but not your room, you outgrew that bed shortly after I met you), I reached across and held one side of your bearded face.
“Grant,” I half-whispered.
You opened your eyes and shut them again. With one arm you pulled me in, dragging me from my spot on the bed, squeezing me next to you. You kissed my cheek.
This is my favorite memory of you. This was the first of the countdown, when we had one month left, before we ever confessed. This was the first time that I was sure, even if only for the day.
I stayed up
two hours longer
trying to wrap my head
This was going to be
you asked me
(after all those months of wishing you would)
In between June, I fell softly into you
to come out in March a headwind.
Autumn passed quietly, in retrospect,
and you kept yourself amongst the country
and the trees which are yours.
Winter swallowed us whole and gave no choice
but to let go; I fought but choked
on a gale force that wished me silent.
April once loomed with the threat
to send me a hole of you,
and May kept it a promise.
To each one who’s done me wrong:
bring me back the piece of myself.