should you return.

don’t tell me that. i wasn’t slumming! i don’t remember how i found you or how you found me.

it’s not easier to leave. 

i didn’t know you were going until you left. i haven’t moved much from this bed. sleeping til four makes it better, half a bottle of pinot. it’s not cheap, but what else will i waste my time on? i wake up and go to bed with a headache.

you and i lay on this bed a lot. i remember all the things you said to me, all of them. you used to trace my collarbones and tell me i was entirely too skinny.  we fought about opening the window. i always won, and you cracked it for me. it was late fall, and a chill settled permanently in the air. when we went out, there was always a pleasant silence as we faced the mirror—you tying your scarf, buttoning my coat. i wondered, just to myself, if you were more beautiful than me, but then you kissed me, and i doubted nothing.

we rolled all our secrets into cigarettes and smoked them. they vanished in trails of grey, and we didn’t speak of them again. i loved you.

darling, we can’t rewind; none of this was entirely our doing.

you saw it coming and tried to swerve, and now you’re dead.