"Baby,"
He mumbles as he laughs into my mouth. I think I love him, but I do not say it out loud. I test the word ‘love’ with my tongue, rolling it about. We lie on the white sheets, watching the sunlight trail in, bubbles of light reflected on our bodies. He smiles that soft gentle smile he only uses with me. Rubs his leg against mine. Last night and 3am with pizza and fire escape gazing. I try to remember everything, commit every detail to memory. I try to remember this happiness, I try to absorb the sunlight and his presence. I feel taken over, there is laughter inside me that wants to bubble out, glaze this entire room. I reach for his fingers, intertwining our hands. Three days later and I receive a letter. I am a thousand and seventy-two miles away from the boy. Sometimes, the yearning keeps me up all night. When did he send this letter? I pause ever so slightly then tear apart the letter almost eagerly. The words that swim up against my eyes are indecipherable. I cannot do this. They say. I cannot do what..? I wonder quietly but everything is spinning. I cannot do us? I remember the way he pointed at the stars, tracing the big dipper in them. The way everything was ethereal. And the way this letter was sent days before that night. How do you make someone love you even more when you know you’re going to be leaving them after? What now?
