I don’t know how love works.

But I know I left you on a Sunday after spending six months trying to shove the words that escaped me into the dozens of envelopes that you had sent over the last six years.

I don’t know how loves works but I know that Christmas Eve, when you held me and I cried, it was because I was already losing track of your world map hands as you navigated the clams in the soup your brother made.

I don’t know how love works, but I know that over spring break, i bought flowers i knew you wouldn’t even like to say I’m sorry, even though I knew I was just trying to make things better temporarily until I got the courage to say goodbye.

I don’t know how love works, but I know that when you force feed yourself a certain amount of affection, your body starts to reject it. You can only fill up so much artificial substitute for love, like cotton candy filling up my head and grape flavoring spilling out of my mouth all over your bedsheets like the time i was drunk and spilled hot chocolate with marshmallows and you yelled at me like they would never be clean again.

I can’t love a terrarium. I get too frustrated with things I can’t touch. I can’t fill up any more phone calls with rainstorms and giving up.

is there a word for the way it feels to cry in front of the Water Lilies in the museum?

is there a word for when your teeth taste like blood from getting punched in the heart?

is there a word for the moment when you say the last words you ever wanted to say to the boy?

there should be.

maybe then I could understand what it takes to tell someone that you hope they wake up feeling alone.

Who I’ve become is someone I respect.