Today gravity threw me on my face.

It hurt.

 

You were one of my first thoughts.

I wanted someone to talk to so I didn't look foolish.

I wanted reassurance.

I used to use every excuse to talk to you, to see you.

 

The idea to call you and ask for a ride briefly danced through my head,

     only for a split second though.

A couple months ago I might've pulled that card.

I don't know how I would've exaggerated it until I could ask you to pick me up,

but I would've found a way.

 

I almost cried.

Not because of physical pain, but because of emotional pain.

You wouldn't care that I got hurt.

Not anymore.

 

I told myself you wouldn't care,

     yet I hoped.

I hoped and hoped and hoped until I texted you about my fall.

 

You didn't care.

 

If things were the same,

You would've met me in the neighborhood, a minute drive away from my house.

You would've asked about my injuries after some teasing.

You would've made me laugh.

 

We would've arrived at my house way too fast,

     and I would've prolonged my stay in your car, as I always do, pulling conversation out of thin air.

 

Conversation would eventually end,

And you would have places to be and things to do.

Things you dropped just to care for me.

 

Then I would've demand a hug, as I always do, unbuckling your seatbelt.

I would've got to wrap my arms around you, as I always did,

And I would've kissed you--on the cheek, on the lips, where ever you permitted.

(I only shamelessly displayed affection with you.)

And I would've reluctantly released you from my arms, as I always did, knowing you were waiting on me.

And I would've paused to stare at the floor, as I always did, watching you out of the corner of my eye.

I would've felt an ache, as I always did, knowing you would never pull me back and tell me to stay.

Then I would exit your car.

 

 

                        --October 28, 2013