Winter
He was fifteen. I was sixteen.
And we were young.
And we were in love.

“I love you to the moon and back,” he’d say.
And I’d smile and ruffle his hair.
And he’d kiss me on the forehead.
And we were in love.


“Write me a letter,” he said.
So I wrote the truth on a piece of blue paper:
You make me feel alive.
And he wrote back:
You make me feel real.
And that was the truth.
And we were in love.

Spring
"Come over after your Easter dinner," he asked.
And he gave me a basket of candy,
But his hands made me feel sweeter than chocolate.

“I just can’t tonight…” he said (lied).
“Oh, that’s okay… see you tomorrow…” I said (lied).

“He’s going to break up with her,” were the whispers I heard in the hallways
“Four months! Four months and that’s it?” I sobbed.
“No, no. Stop crying honey, you look like you’re on crack…” He tried to joke.

And we [I] were still in love.

Summer
“When are you coming over?” I asked (everyday other day).
No response.
“Are we still on for tonight?” I asked (every Friday).
“Yeah, yeah sure.”
“He’s really going to break up with her this time…” they all said.

And he did.

And I was still in love.

And he was not.







And I am still in love.

And

he

is

*not.