The first time I wrote about death, you looked at me funny. You had a look in your eyes, almost as if the cigarette bud I crushed with the heel of my torn sneakers were metaphors and the beer in my hand wasn’t just a rebel trapped in a 90s jazz song. You gave me your hand, hoping you could be just the therapy I needed.
You had always treated me like a poem, trying to read between the lines I never wrote.
I had taken your hand only because I had always dreamed of dancing in the rain with you, our silences synchronised to Iron & Wine. You thought you were kissing the girl from my stories, the one who romanticised darker and darkest. Your thumbs wiped away the raindrops on my cheeks that I’d wait for to reach my tongue so I could taste them.
You thought they were tears.
You’ve always been a fixer, the one with the missing piece of jigsaw. I don’t sleep at night because there are songs playing in my head, not because I think of ways to kill myself. I am just not broken enough for you, and you keep gluing back dead skin. I am what you see on the surface, just a sketch. But this sketch is still waiting for you on her porch, hoping you’d take her to dance under a starry beach, kiss her salty lips, just because you like the taste.