And when he kisses you,
you will not be surprised.
Although the timing was random,
you knew that he wanted to,
and you knew that he would.
His lips will part from yours,
he will smile,
and he will kiss you again.
It won't be soft like the first one.
You will not stop him.
You want this to mean nothing.
As his tongue traces your lips
you will retrace your thoughts,
wondering just when you will tell him
you don't know how to make love
without being in love,
but there is no love here.
When his hands begin to slide under your shirt,
you will not stop him.
You will begin to wonder if you are a tease.
You will begin to wonder how angry he will be,
you are not asking for ***, are you?
This is just a kiss,
A kiss is not consent.
You will realize your heart is racing.
You won't be able to tell what's moving faster,
him or your thoughts.
His hands will travel to your lower half,
and you will pull back from the kiss.
You will want to say something to his face,
but it's already heading downward.
You will not stop him.
Instead,
you will swallow and find yourself conflicted.
You want this to mean nothing.
As he begins to unbutton the denim,
you will realize your breathing is so sporadic
that you're getting lightheaded.
Your body is not getting excited in the way you want it to.
You want this to mean nothing.

It doesn't.

As his breath ghosts over your lower half,
through the remaining fabric,
you realize you chose the word ghost subconsciously
because you know this moment will haunt you.
And when he goes to pull the fabric away,
you will stop him.
He will be confused; he will be flustered.
He will ask you why,
and you will sit up, pull your pants on,
and tell him that you just can't.
He will be mad.
You will drive home with all the windows down,
you want to the wind to blow you away.
You will shower with cold water,
you want something else to send chills down your spine.
And when you finally lay down,
you will pull your blankets tight around you.
You want your body to regain its warmth,
its own warmth.
You want this to mean something,
it does.
You close your eyes,
and you will tell yourself:
"I make love to myself every day.
I wash my hair, I brush my teeth.
I drink water even though I hate it.
I sing along to songs in the car.
I watch the sky change colors at night.
I draw pictures of animals,
I take pictures of the sun.
I wake up.
God ******, I wake up.
I am my own best friend.
I am here, and I am not alone.
I have me.
This is all I will ever need,
and I mean it."

I've always heard people say that
"Love's not like the movies."
I feel like I've come to learn they're not wrong.
But they're not completely right.
I've come to learn that love
can feel just like those movies.
You feel stupid in love,
can trip over your own two feet,
blabber,
blush,
go on cheesy dates.
You can use every pick up line in the world,
and you can want to show them the world-
they can become your world.
You can stick with them through thick and thin,
You can do everything in your power to make them happy.
But I feel like the movies are wrong at some point.
They start out strong, just like love.
They start out honest,
they start out happy.
But the movies end up happy,
and love doesn't always end up happy.
Falling in love isn't always just like the movies.
Sometimes, there comes a point in love where there's a disconnect.
If you're lucky, it can realign.
But falling out of love doesn't realign.
Falling out of love isn't like the movies.
They don't show you that in movies,
falling out of love can be more than the tear-soaked pillows.
It can be more than the empty bottle of *****,
the drunken texts,
the going out to distract yourself.
No,
falling out of love can be worse.
Falling out of love isn't always the abrupt "it's over."
Falling out of love can be the day you go to get coffee, just like always, but your footsteps don't match up the way they did a week ago.
It can be turning down the favorite songs you shared instead of turning them up, turning down the emotions instead of letting them out.
Waking up to the back of their head.
Falling asleep in bed before they get there.
Going to work sooner than usual, because you need to get gas.
The conversations die.
Falling out of love can be staring at the credits when the movie's over, because neither are sure if you should end it.
Maybe the silence isn't thick enough.
Let the credits roll.
Don't hold their hand.
Don't turn it down.
Don't make a joke.
Falling out of love can be just as rough when you know they are and you can't do anything.
Falling out of love can be letting them pack without having a conversation about it.
So when you packed your things we didn't have to speak.
I remember the moment we kind of just looked at each other and knew.
You had this pitiful look in your eyes like you wanted to apologize, but there was nothing to say, you can't be sorry for feeling.
You can't be sorry for not feeling, I always told you not to apologize for what you couldn't control.
We didn't talk about where you were going.
We didn't talk about what was happening to our plans.
We didn't talk about the ring I saw you looking at one day when I glanced over your shoulder (I had that feeling you were being sneaky.)
We didn't talk.
So I sat in the car of the parking lot where you took me on our first date,
and stared at the spot in the grass where you laid down and stared at the clouds.
I didn't even get out of the car, and I reached for the handle time
after time
after time
after time
but never opened the door because you knew you wouldn't be there.
We didn't talk.
Falling out of love is how many nights I've spent sleeping on the couch because the bed smells like you.
Falling out of love is waking up for the third day in a row this week, forgetting you were gone.
Falling out of love isn't like the movies.
We didn't talk.
The credits have been over for a while now.
I turned the TV off and have been staring at the screen.
I wonder what song would play for the end credits of our movie.
Because I know it's over, I'm just waiting for them to roll.

I'm collecting dead wildflowers in a jar.
I've been watching their color fade,
wondering just how dull they
may grow at the end of each day.
I leave them in my windowsill
and let the sun drain them of sustenance.
It's quite interesting how easily
an item of livelihood
can lead to such tribulation.

I cannot help anticipating the day I
wake
beside you.
To hear your voice in reality
and not the speaker of my phone
would be
to wake to a dream,
instead of from one.
I've dreamt of you twice since Tuesday.
Days have blurred together,
as have the years we've known each other.
Almost like the way you edit your pictures;
these are soft,
beautiful,
emotional moments,
and I only wish I capture more.

As I watch you strum
away at your guitar,
I hope the only thing
you're playing is music.

I was sitting beside my best friend,
catching up with friends I hadn't seen since they graduated
when you sat down,
uninvited.
It didn't take a genius to tell
my throat was already closing
at the sight of you.
It had been over a year and a half since
I had last seen your face,
yet here I sat,
less than three feet from my ******.
I received two texts immediately.
one:
"I'm sorry."
From my best friend, who knew everything.
two:
"Are you okay?"
From my other best friend, who knew nothing,
but felt like something was wrong.
Wrong.
Suddenly, everything about that night felt wrong.
I choked on every sentence as it forced its way out of my suddenly tightening throat,
pretending that you were not there.
You see, I've spent so much time
pretending you were not there
that I had begun to wonder if maybe,
you were just a nightmare.
Yet here I sat staring my old friends in the eyes,
more focused than anticipated.
They could tell.
You see, it's a small town,
I didn't need to tell everyone what you did for them to find out.
I thought I was doing well until you spoke to me.
The first words you had directly spoken to me in almost
two and a half years.
"I knew I'd see you here."
I blocked out the rest.
I'd like to block you out, too,
but it seems recurring dreams,
nightmares,
are supposed to teach you something.
I'd like this to make sense,
but the only things I ever learned from you
was to never let my guard down again.
To not love that deeply,
deeply enough that I feel forced to do anything
to prove my love.
I learned I should never have to prove my love.
I should never have loved you.

When you sat across from me and spoke my way,
I couldn't help but think I'd never thought I was going to see you again.
I couldn't help but remember every sleepless night,
such as right now,
where I can't help lie awake in fear you somehow know
just what I am doing,
when I have had you blocked on facebook for three years.
But it's a small town.
Word travels, secrets are never truly safe.
Hushed confessions hop eardrum to eardrum
until they're nothing more than a subtle gasp.

When I finally pulled away from the restaurant,
I drove in so many circles that I got lost--
there are only five roads downtown.
When you finally pull away,
maybe I'll sleep for once--
there is only one of you,
and I wish there were
none.

The time is 2:38a.m.
I am staring at your picture,
and you are
perfect.
I wonder how you stumbled into my life,
how your warm cocoa eyes
were just enough to quench my sweet tooth.
The gentle waves in your hair,
permanently disheveled,
******* away without the wind that got them that way.
And this picture does not match your voice,
smooth,
my favorite drink.
The more I take in,
the lighter I feel,
drunk on love.
Drunk on you.
Growing up,
my mother was an alcoholic.
I always told myself I would never
fall victim to the bottle's grasp,
and it turns out I myself have a longing to get wasted--
so long as it means I'm wasting my time with you.
Each second with you feels like
every party I skipped out on.
Every moment with you feels like
I'm front row for my favorite band.
I will never forget your voice.
I will never forget the way you make me feel.
I will never forget your love,
I will never forget
you.