It’s the same thing every time.
But I find myself filling in the blanks again with a change of heart and Frank Ocean.
I have all my favorite memories of us organized like yearbook superlatives.
Most likely to lead to the rest of my life.
Most likely to put your arm around me.
Prettiest nervous glance.
Best insecure laugh.
I remember every guy I’ve ever loved.
But you feel different; I discovered Daniel Caesar walking to our first date.
I don’t even want to be with you, I just want to talk about our opinions more confidently than we should over a bottle of red wine,
In your old apartment.
I want another romance that doesn’t make sense, something I can easily run from.
I want to learn to be held and then start the clock,
Three months until this has to end.
I want to be back in your room where my identity was unknown and where we could paint our hopes and sorrows with sunset colors.
Make them look pretty so no one asks about them.
I just want to make more memories of us walking on the beach early in the morning.
Me being ok with you being unsure.
Each were perfect.
It was a drug.
It was the type of high that made me want to describe everything else as “my old life.”