I liked you. I did.
You were so smooth,
I only remembered you had rough hands
when I had read your words a seventh time.
Not to say I did not like it.
Your words tasted like dark chocolate,
melting into my bloodstream,
seizing my veins with these feelings.
Not to say I liked it.
You held my face
between your hands,
and when your stare grew heavy,
I hid my flushed cheeks in your embrace.
There was a thumping
I thought I had heard before,
the one that had been calling my name.
So I said,
In a place I was a stranger to,
with movements stranger to daylight.
Your whispers made me think
I was in a world apart from you,
one I never wanted you to be part of.
In my head. Too much.
I wanted my clothes, I wanted to leave.
But then you said, after puffing and scribbling,
“I have to go.”
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe we never met eyes,
maybe I was not brave,
maybe you did not like dancing.
Maybe I just dreamt it.
I read your words again.
For the hundred, thirty-third time:
“I’m sorry. You deserve better.
In another time, in another place.