And it burns, burns, burns.

6th October, 2012

"It was nice touching your pinky," you said. Yes it was. But it was torturing at the same time. 

I remember us sitting side by side on the cold concrete plant box and we were talking, staring at the unmoving parking lot. The shadows casted by the moonlight on your face were a dark shade of blue and your eyes were moist and glistening and mocking the two am sky. And I was trying not to look at you  because I fear I might not control myself and recklessly throw my bones for your arms to crush. Then you started talking about love and relationships and responsibilities and I couldn't help it. "Can we not talk about that?" I said. And it wasn't really a question. And you were sorry. And it was hard to breathe. 

We haven't seen each other for weeks and we shouldn't have seen each other yet. But there was a car like yours and it turned out to be yours. And I circled it, peeking in your windows - the tissue box, the passenger's seat -  and I can see myself sitting on it and you're sitting on the driver's seat, your eyes on the road and my eyes on my book, and you'd hold my hand, and you'd look at me, "You'll hurt your eyes, " you'd say and I'd look at you and close my book and fidget with the ends of your hair, and you'd squeeze my hand tight, and kiss it, and I'd say, "It's okay not to hold my hand, you're driving, drive with two hands," and you'd say It's okay and I'd always believe you - the dashboard, the picture of San Josemaria Escriva and my necklace on it. All I needed was to see you to believe that you were really there.

Hands side by side on the cold concrete plant box, fingers restless, "Do you miss me?"

"So much."

"So much?"

"So, so much."