We Could

Tick, tick.
Numbers falling off the calendar, a pile of mangled integers.
That wily six stabbing Monday in the eye.

Exactly one hundred and four days, I’ve known about you. Seventeen days short of one third this year. Seventeen, the most random number.

I think we could be friends. We could share ice cream even though I’d turn it down after only the second bite because I don’t really like ice cream much, but do really like watching you eat it. We could laugh at inside jokes never said outside. We could be close, we could.

Smack, smack.
Two commits suicide with Tuesday; sliding off the page, they’re both tired of this count down.
Broken feet, formal fonts cracked.

But you’d tell me, you’d say: one third this year, it’s not long. Not long enough to feel sad.

And I’d smile, I’d laugh: nodding to convince you to convince me. I’d agree.

Drip, drip.
Thursday’s got a tear in her eye as she lets go of thirty’s hand.
They’re giving up before the rescue team hurries in to tape Friday back together with Saturday, before someone finds nine and ten clinging to each other in the waves.

You’d push my hair out of my eyes and you’d tell me, you’d say: it’s been good, it’s been on purpose, I will remember you.

I’d watch you walk away and I’d not tell you, I’d not say: we could, just for one more day, sit together right here on the couch. We could pretend time’s not run out, we could.

Slip, slip.
Another month gone. And another and another and the leaves have changed from wet to green to gold, the seasons waging bets on how long you’d stay.

If I’d ask you, if I’d beg you to sit right here with me just for now you’d smile, you’d look away: you’d sit a little longer and touch me like you care and I’d believe it was on purpose just like you said.

But you’d find your shoes when my eyes got too heavy to hold open because you’re no good at saying goodbye.

I promised you I wouldn’t be sad when you left. These falling numbers, all these days losing face, they know.

I lied.

xoxo

M.L. H’art