This is a detour.
We were so young. We are so young. I love. I love. I love… I love the way you fight and breathe and I love the answers you don’t have. I love your mistakes. Was that what I was saying? I love. I love that I can not love you. That is what I must have meant.
We were so young and so old and now my memories are sepia toned, because that is the way that I learned memories to work. The past is colored an orangish-brown, and somewhere the hues in between had answers (I know they are there, in brownscale, in the lines between hair follicles, between blue skies and green leaves, between suns and clouds that tip to exactly the same point between light and dark. is this irony?) and yet the longer I stare the less I see faces and the more I see shapes, thoughts, a smell on my pillow, a January drive, a feeling so unreal it never existed and only lingers to remind me of what I’ll never have. This, this, this. I awake in new arms that hold my arms that hold my skin but can’t hold can’t see anything else. I am invisible.
Your first mistake was in believing me to be the sort of person who knew rather than just spoke, was in believing that sort of person exists at all. This
I do not love.