Our skin was on fire, burning a hole through my bedroom floor. A scratched Bon Iver album turned slowly in the background, next to a bottle of whisky. Did I really know better?
Those Sunday words began ringing through my brain and I asked you to stop. I thought you understood, but by then it was too late.
We argued next to your open car door, under the glow of the street light. I stood tip toed and barefoot on the asphalt to reach your face, and that’s when I knew your lips had a price tag.
“How are you doing?” she texted.
“Horrible. I feel like I can’t swallow.”
But moreso, I didn’t know how to breathe anymore without telling my lungs to swell. I was thrashing in an ocean when I thought I was almost to the other side of a lake, with no lifesaver in sight.
This is it how it feels to leave you.