She begins to realize an alternate reality existed in the spaces between his hand and hers. In another day, in another life perhaps their fingers could have met clasped tight around the constant whispers and all the "what if"s.
sometimes I want to wring my neck
like a waterlogged dishcloth
sometimes I want to squeeze my eyes
until my brain vessels pop
sometimes I want to spike my gut
until my insides flow
i cannot allow my soul
to dive deep below
A fire burns strongly
in the night,
feeding off the
oxygen that leaves
my body every time
his gaze meets mine.
I see his eyes’ warmth flicker
on and off
like the filament
of a lightbulb,
turning a shade darker
when scanning the mass
burning brightly when
the orbs align with mine.
catch on fire, kindling
to my sweaty palms and
the shaky breath
that rattles in my chest.
A fire has started that
we cannot control,
that burns the room
scorching the bodies of
the occupants within.
These people are oblivious
To the blaze that
creeps up the walls,
fed by the tug of heartstrings
pulled taught with separation.
They are oblivious
to the heat
to the burn
to the pain
of two people locking eyes
across a crowded room.
Love came around on a Sunday afternoon.
A time when trees whispered sweet nothings to the wind
and her heart sung to the tune of another’s voice.
A time when faint lines danced across his face,
chasing the laughter and the smiles in criss-cross patterns of happiness,
when butterflies stormed in her belly after
having been awakened by the vibrant thumpthumpthump of his heart.
But heartbreak always comes with Monday morning.
A time when the muscles between her ribs ached for
a breath of relief from the constant holding of air.
A time where his lungs wished to be pushed into the deep
so that they may only feel the water and not the emptiness,
when the butterflies sunk down to her toes under the weight
of the splintered remains of his broken heart.
So love came around on a Sunday afternoon,
and suffocated on a Saturday morning.