I still think of you on Sunday mornings and even though that was never our story, it is still the truest one that I have ever told – if only so I can sleep at night.
The light expands like lungs and air, pressing me into your ghost, before you disappear. I skim our surface. My body needs time to trust the feeling: wanted. And even more time to admit: want.
You took back your tender mouthfuls of I-love-you and morsels of tongue-tied lips, but I stayed. Stranded here, with only everything I imagined. Telling myself stories, conjuring my little song.