Looking out the window of your car I imagined running my fingers over cornfields like pages of a book.
Watching the sunset in the rearview mirror as we moved forward together, needing two of my hands to touch just one of yours.
Followed by 120 days of realizing we both love saltine crackers and both drool when we sleep really well.
You loved listening to my heartbeat and telling me how it sounded and when I couldn’t sleep you’d pull my head to your chest and tell me to listen to yours.
120 days of you guessing my favorite flower, complementing my favorite cardigan, picking my favorite book off the shelf and reading to me, and attempting to tie my hair in a ponytail or a bun.
And you touched like my skin was ice and your hands skates, but that turned into you grasping at me like the room is flames and my body oxygen On the 120th night you crawled into my bed, I could taste the alcohol on your mouth when you told me you loved me and I became addicted to the taste.
After a week I was Rory and you Dean and with that began our 39-day happy hour.
Until the 159th night when you took back that you loved me and I knew I never could again. My skin regressed back to ice and the next 45 days was our last call, numb to it all.
On the 204th day you were Summer and I was Tom eating pancakes in a diner. All I did was stare at the buttons on your shirt and think about the time we saw the moon and you asked for me to write a poem but little did you know I have been this whole time:
Iris Moon Marble Moon Missed Moon Monday Blues Button Moon Spring Cleaning.
And never moonstruck.
We lasted 12 more days and when we ended my first thought was that I can now: cut my hair count again and write again.