Remember when we’d stay up until 3am, talking about how
lucky we were?
The way we told each other everything, bared our
souls, confessed our infatuation?
Repeating “I love you” because we couldn’t
believe we belonged to each other.
Yeah, me either.
I remember the daily arguments that lasted for
hours, always fighting about something and
The fights about how little you trusted
me, how you couldn’t until we were married. And maybe
not even then.
How you didn’t want me talking to whatever friends
I had left, because they were guys and I was going to
cheat on you.
Because I belonged to you.
I remember the pleads that came
from both of us, because I desperately wanted to leave
while you desperately wanted me to stay.
In the end, you left and I wanted you to stay.
When you did something you always accused
me of, and expected me to dismiss it as
quickly as you did. I couldn’t.
I still haven’t.
Because you were infatuated with my being.
I remember the awful months I was
alone, even with you by my side.
The slow alienation, the ignorance and, sometimes,
convenience of my presence.
Because I was that lucky.
Because “I love you” was always the reminder that
it had been worth it. It wasn’t.