The closest I have been to
happiness was that one evening
watching The Shining with
you; when there was a snowstorm
outside and our parents were
having dinner together and you
promised to cook for me (your
cooking was awful, by the way)
and we talked and turned off all
the lights, turned on the television
and made fun of the wallpaper
in the hotel. We watched Mathilda
after that, which, to be honest, was
much more frightening, and I think
you put your arm around me; I
pretended not to notice, because I
thought it might not mean anything;
your mother came home too soon and
we said goodbye. I promised to cook
for you, some day, and never did, then
you moved to the other side of the country
and fell in love with someone else and I
stayed here, and I dated other people and
never really got you out of my head.

Now I am over you, and have been for
a while, but even though we never were
together all of my best memories include
you; and it leaves me empty-hearted
and wondering if I'll ever learn to love
eating terrible salmon and watching
a terrible film with someone else.