My mother keeps asking me about you, I think it's evident in the way my face falters at the seams and puddles into my lap like ice cream in a cone on a scorching July afternoon; the substance staining my hands something awfully dewy. It was then that I realized I haven't mentioned to her that you no longer came around. A full voicemail box, wilted roses left nestled underneath the door knocker, handwritten coffee-stained letters returned back to me, and drunken thursday afternoons. I wish I could call you, even if it is only to hear your voice on the answering machine so I won't forget the sound of your voice when my memory becomes too inebriated to think back on it. When I close my eyes, it's almost as if I can feel you pressed against my fingertips, in my arms as we spun around the room dancing as if we had forever to waste; your baby blues looking at me as if I were it for you. If it's any consolation, I thought you were it for me.
