Can you believe
That it’s been a year?
I can still feel the first time,
Your hands danced on mine,
A soft presence, almost shy.
I could barely pay attention
To the film playing on television
Because there, right beside me,
A story was already unfolding,
One that was far more fascinating
Than any other mystery.
And it was.
Here we are, a year later,
The story continues to be
The most gruelling mystery
Of two people ceasing to be,
Of you & I never becoming we,
Instead, a strange, foreign word
To each other’s vocabulary.
I thought we both saw ourselves
In this picture perfect future:
Lying together on crumpled sheets,
Watching Sherlock on repeat,
Reading poetry and drinking coffee,
A state of being indescribably
We were never meant to be that.
Only a manuscript tossed in the trash.
We loved too little, and bled too much,
Too proud to break the silence.
Too scared to end the sentence.
So let’s scrap the ending,
And go back to the beginning: