Never

Now I’m thinking about all the times you never saw me, when I didn’t even care. I became so me that I forgot about you, writing in my top-bound spiral notebooks on campus, on the lawn, stretched out on my blanket, barefoot, books and words and the music of the wind in the trees, friends dropping by to chat. Smoking and drinking coffee.

Dancing barefoot all night to music you hate, finding my groove and staying in it until a new rhythm caught my hips. Spinning from one dance to another, DJs and dancers and live bands in my wake, broken glass—shards of beer bottles disappearing into the soles of my feet, emerging years later, when I lived at the beach, studying English literature and living without you.

Learning myself was the hardest thing of all, so how did I expect you to do it first? You never had all of the stories or songs, just the dizzying highs of feeling me let go of everything. It must have been terrifying, being with a girl then finding yourself caught in a cosmic whirlwind of stardust so thick you can’t see, no ground beneath your feet, falling up until you’re down.