I sat and thought about her.
How do I start over again?
Will she ever come back?
You see the last time I saw her was a year ago.
She had this vibrant smile.
Clear skin.
Golden curly hair.
And this confidence that attracted everyone in a room.
But I silenced her for a whole year.
I forgot about her.
Never once looking back.
Not once going back and seeing how she was doing.
Not even thinking about the fact that she might not be there.
I miss her, now more than ever.

Amanda, are you there?

Blocked.
Blocking the hope of a text message.
A chance to even get in my head more.
Closed.
Closing the sheets in my room so I don’t get a  glimpse of you.
Down.
Keeping my head down as I walk into the room.
So that my eyes don’t “ironically” find you.
Cold.
The chills I get when I walk past you.
Lies.
The foundation of our “relationship”.

As we’re lying down I breath in your scent, the scent of your cologne, your heavy musk.
It fills my lungs with each breath I take, like the way baked goods do when they come fresh out of the oven.
Together we feel each other’s skin.
I trace the outside lines of your soft yet firm muscle until I make my way up to your face; one that resembles mine.
One that has dark spots and whiteheads.
One that makes us so frustrated in our skin but we share that.
So I place my hand on this skin, the skin that resembles mine and caress it like it’s this perfect plum that I’m about to take a bite out of.
My eyes are locked with yours, as if we are looking right through them, right into our skulls.
Trying to read each other’s mind.
Ironically we are both thinking the same thing.
I pull in, you pull in, we pull in and take a deep juicy bite out of each other.
I feel your tongue and you feel mine as we taste the juices we give to each other.
Our hearts, they beat on a time that only loves sets.
A beat that feels so great, so great our hearts connect.
Our lips disconnect and we’re back to laying down.
Trying to catch our breath, we breathe in and breathe out, breathe in and breathe out.
Until the point where I’m breathing what you let out and I’m breathing recycled air.
That same air, the air of your musk or cologne, the air that feels like baked goods, when they come fresh out of the oven.
Our eyes connect back to each other, looking right into our skulls.
But this time we know what we’re thinking.

And we’re thinking “I love you”.

Amanda M Brown copyright ©️ 2019

Hope is when you send a simple text with the hope that he comes barging into your room wishing you back.

Hope is when you constantly look at your text messages and hope he blows up your phone the way you would with him.

Hope is a knife that goes deeper and deeper in your heart every time you think of the future with him.

Hope is when you cry in your room everyday because you hope that one day your pain will go away and your happiness will come back.  

Hope is when you’re still holding on to the idea of him knocking at your door that everytime you hear a knock, you think it’s him.

But hope is the fact that you can’t bring yourself to delete any of your photos because you hope that everything will be mended. And one day you can make a collage with all the photos from the beginning. Maybe even showing your future kids, future grandkids.