Tell Me How You Never Saw Me Coming
tell me how you never saw me coming. how you never
thought I’d mean a thing. how a doormat becomes welcoming
if you step on it long enough. how I got stuck in the soles of
your shoes and eventually it felt strange without me. how love,
for you, came like skipping a step on a staircase and waiting for your
feet to find solid ground again. how, in the moment
in between, your heart was in your throat. how, in the years
afterwards, it settled in your stomach. tell me you remember the fire truck
screaming around your corner on the day you first held my hand.
how, since then, you’ve wondered which of us they would’ve saved.
tell me how you’ve known me for 2,197 days and that must count
for something. tell me everything and I’ll tell you that the story of us
is something that will be told in the dark by a campfire with chocolate
melting between my teeth. they’ll ask for a ghost story and I’ll tell them
ours. I’ll say, he did all that and still tried to say he loved me. I’ll say my
hands are still outstretched from all I gave him and they’ll say how did
you leave, how did you ever leave. and I’ll say history is just another word
for how long I let him walk through the streets with my heart between his teeth.