You once told me that love fucked you over.
I was silent for a minute. Then I told you that I’ve always liked listening because it was the only way to silence all the other voices I heard.
You said that if I was smart I wouldn’t want to listen.
I said that I’ve never been very good at being smart.
You barely smiled.
I didn’t care if you were broken.
You looked me and told me that’s what they all said.
You told me that’s what they all said too.
I looked into your eyes.
You looked back into mine.
I liked the sound of your silence.
You said you liked the sound of my silence.
It was the first summer night that I consciously acknowledged.
I am aware of every detail that I do not need to know.
I am focusing on all the wrong things. I can see, but do I really see? I need to see all of you right now, but the only image in my mind is the thought of how I should remember you when this is over. I fake a laugh to look unfazed by everything around me that is coming into sight too fast, too quickly– the recollection of you, of us, of world soon without you, of Insecurity’s eyes staring back into mine. The sky clears. And for a second I let myself think that maybe one day we’ll look back to this moment (and realize what we could have been).