when the morning comes,
there will be a ceremony waiting
at your doorstep.

you will hear no knocks.
there will be no people.
there will most likely
be no music and drinks.

instead, in here, in the morning,
you'll find a chest heaving
with repressed sighs and cries.

remember when i pretended i didn't see you
offer your hand when
i was trying to get down from behind the car?
or when i didn't look at you
when we were at the pool,
and you gave me a hopeful glance?

i'm sorry—
this is when i want to say
that i wanted to touch your fingertips,
hold the hand that always moved
with such ease and grace.

at the moment,
even though i don't want to admit it
(i still will),
i didn't think i deserved it.

i didn't think i was meant for it.

because here, in this morning,
when you open the door,
i will be looking at the ground,
the silence throbbing between us,
and pretend again
that i do not see you.

that i do not feel for you.

this is how this ceremony will go.

this is how my defeat sounds like.

i hope that,
despite this morning,
you will accept it.

and we'll both be here in this
collective noise and these in-betweens.
just like the times when
we were in the car and at the pool—

we were never here.

*for g