You once told me that I was like folk music. Which I have never been able to put together, because folk music is beautiful, and I am crooked.
You remind me of summer.
Your hair is like sunshine, your eyes are the sky, and your voice reminds me of rain. I wish I could tell you that I miss you so much my heart is cracking my ribs. Every day, I think of when we held hands between the trees and under the stars that looked like tiny white roses. I try not to think of the time you told me, half-smiling, that if we ever went to a museum, you wouldn’t hold my hand because it says not to touch the art.
But then, one night, you met her. You asked me if you could kiss her, or if I had anything to say about it, so being the kamikaze pilot I am, I told you I didn’t care.
When you took her into that room, closing the door behind you, I felt like buildings were falling.
I had burnt my hand curling my hair that morning, but once you walked into that dark room, I couldn’t feel the soft exposed tissue, or the floor, or my bones breaking.
I said I didn’t care. But I cared so much I wanted to jump out of the car on my way home.
I hope you still think of me when you hear folk music, because every strum of a banjo makes my heart beat a little faster.
I wish I could tell you that I miss you so much sometimes I can’t breathe. I wish I could tell you that this morning, I woke up with copper on my breath and my swollen bloody lips reminded me of the last time we kissed.