I don’t remember the last time I held your hand.

What does it feel like to be wrapped up in your arms?

Your lips are foreign to me.

When did that happen?

I think it’s because of all the stress,

evident from the knots in my back,

the way your hands form fists too easily,

and mine won’t stop shaking.

After all,

midterms are next week,

I have five,

you must have a lot too,

I would be certain if I just asked,

but whenever we’re together,

my tongue curls into a ball at the bottom of my mouth,

my lips stitch themselves together,

my eyes marry the floor.

There’s this awkward silence,

the one thing I hate most,

and yet,

even me,

with my outgoing nature,

my endless chatter,

my desire to talk,

can’t find a way to

speak up.

I think it’s just a phase we’re going through,

that we’ll eventually grow out of,

like a child snoring,

my first pair of green converse,

your obsession with pokemon.

After all,

it’s only the first month of the year,

we still have 11 more to go,

we’re not running out of time,

just running out of patience,

finally getting past the silence,

striking up a conversation,

only to have it morph into an argument,

like the jaws of a hungry shark,

and suddenly,

there’s no us,

because you want to be right,

but so do I.

I think it’s because of you,

if you could just stop

raising your voice,

punching the wall,

blaming it on me,

then maybe we could,

work it out.

After all,

it’s February 10th,

and nothing feels right.

I hold my breath,

when I’m with you,

praying you won’t notice,

the fake shape of my smile,

the uneasy laughter that falls from my lips,

the rigid posture my body has adopted,

anything to prevent you from

pushing me into the corner,

screaming wildly into my face,

holding my wrists so tight they’ve lost all circulation.

I can’t be myself,

so instead,

here is everything I pretend to be for you,

I’m sorry, of course it was my fault,

I’m submissive, giving in even though we both know I’m right,

I’m patient, I will pretend to tolerate your temper.

Once,

your hands roamed my body

and afterwards I could hold them with my own.

Once,

your lips met mine with urgency,

and afterwards I could talk to them about anything.

Once,

your arms wouldn’t let me go,

so we would just stand there,

bodies perfectly matched,

feet rooted to the ground,

frozen in time.

Once,

you would touch me,

we’re not touching anymore.