We’ve only got two weeks left. You roll your eyes, tell me not to talk like that. Talk like what? It is what it is. You say we’ll be fine. People do this all the time. I tell you we’re not people, we’re us. How will we breathe?

I’ve practically moved into your apartment because mine is pilled high with boxes. It was your idea, said I’m here all the time anyway. It’s like you don’t remember that I had to fight you just to get a damn drawer. But I’m pressing closer to you like you can leave some type of imprint on me. We’re smashed together like we’ll fuse and we’ll never have to be apart.

I told you it wasn’t a good idea. You told me don’t be stupid. How can this be smart when it feels this way. How can this be good when I’m regretting it already.

We’ve got two weeks and it’ll pass and I’ll be far from here. I’ll start that job because you told me to, when all I wanted was for you to ask me to stay. You said it’s good, it’s what I’ve worked for and I’ve earned it and we’ll be fine. And you smile light and kiss me deep, because you don’t believe it either.

Leave a Reply