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the last two months
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Literature Text
heartbreak. you cannot eat for three days. nothing stays down. life is a haze of bedsheets, concerned text messages, and the refusal to mark the inexorable flow of time, moving you away from April 12, 2016, 7PM-
April 16th. you hold yourself up with the back of a wooden pew and hope against hope you don't collapse at the reception. you stutter out a few words to the widow. you hold your best friend. it's one day past the sixth anniversary of your mother's death.
he did not understand this. when you begged clemency, he lied. then he dropped your dreams against the floor.
April 17th. your college friend is in town. he raises a hand to you - it's the first time in two years - and promptly steps into a pot hole. you turn away, laughing helplessly. when he reaches for you in the car, you're taken aback. was he always this warm?
the 18th. you're driving him back. the road home is a lonely one.
---
May 1st: six years since the last time he saw you. you meet at Starbucks. how do you distill six years' worth of life into one afternoon? by the end of it, you are sunburned. he is, too. you both can't stop smiling.
May 12th: he admits kind of sheepishly he liked you back in the day. you return the favor.
June 10th. your friend, who visited back in April, invites you to Indiana. one weekend. two nights. one full day. it's hard to say goodbye on the way to the airport - his friend is driving you, and he won't shut up. can't he see you two need just a moment of silence? just one more moment to let this sink in?
June 20th. you are holding your high school friend. he lets you cry about what happened in indiana. you tell him you don't know where to go from here. he whispers he'll be your friend no matter what. he'll always support you. you want to kiss him for that. maybe you just want to kiss him, anyways.
---
it's been a month and a half, almost. yet the betrayal still hits, nestled into little mundane moments, like when you're trying to see how many colors your college friend's eyes hold. or the patterns you can make on the palm of your high school friend.
there might be potential, but it's not enough. because at the end of the day, you're not ready.
June 25th: it hits you as you're leaning against the pantry, telling her about indiana and texas, and what they are to you. you love them. but it can't last. it's hard to remember that, especially when hearts are on the line.
you aren't capable. and that's okay. just give it a little more time.
April 16th. you hold yourself up with the back of a wooden pew and hope against hope you don't collapse at the reception. you stutter out a few words to the widow. you hold your best friend. it's one day past the sixth anniversary of your mother's death.
he did not understand this. when you begged clemency, he lied. then he dropped your dreams against the floor.
April 17th. your college friend is in town. he raises a hand to you - it's the first time in two years - and promptly steps into a pot hole. you turn away, laughing helplessly. when he reaches for you in the car, you're taken aback. was he always this warm?
the 18th. you're driving him back. the road home is a lonely one.
---
May 1st: six years since the last time he saw you. you meet at Starbucks. how do you distill six years' worth of life into one afternoon? by the end of it, you are sunburned. he is, too. you both can't stop smiling.
May 12th: he admits kind of sheepishly he liked you back in the day. you return the favor.
June 10th. your friend, who visited back in April, invites you to Indiana. one weekend. two nights. one full day. it's hard to say goodbye on the way to the airport - his friend is driving you, and he won't shut up. can't he see you two need just a moment of silence? just one more moment to let this sink in?
June 20th. you are holding your high school friend. he lets you cry about what happened in indiana. you tell him you don't know where to go from here. he whispers he'll be your friend no matter what. he'll always support you. you want to kiss him for that. maybe you just want to kiss him, anyways.
---
it's been a month and a half, almost. yet the betrayal still hits, nestled into little mundane moments, like when you're trying to see how many colors your college friend's eyes hold. or the patterns you can make on the palm of your high school friend.
there might be potential, but it's not enough. because at the end of the day, you're not ready.
June 25th: it hits you as you're leaning against the pantry, telling her about indiana and texas, and what they are to you. you love them. but it can't last. it's hard to remember that, especially when hearts are on the line.
you aren't capable. and that's okay. just give it a little more time.
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