How you know he's not the one

It’s almost three in the morning and you aren’t trembling with adrenaline thinking about the next time you will see him. There is not a smile playing on your lips, and your eyes are tired, like your heart.

 

It’s almost three in the morning and you are in bed, recapping the night: you kissed a boy, but his lips did not move well with your lips. And your tongue did not move well with his tongue, and all the while you’re trying to convince yourself that you’re overthinking it. But you’re not.

 

It’s almost three in the morning and you remember the size of the moon: it was so big tonight. And just clear enough to make out the craters on the surface.

 

We were driving in the back roads and I told him, Look at the moon, look at it. But he didn’t. So I said again, Please it’s really important that you look at the moon. But he didn’t. I heard the flirtation in his voice when he said he wasn’t looking at the moon, he was looking at me, but the sky was left without his stare and that’s when I knew.

 

It wasn’t about the moon, it was the lack of curiosity in his voice, it was about the miracle painted in the stars right in front of him - the miracle that he didn’t bother to see, to keep, to memorialize it, to take it in his hands and say, this was the night I kissed you, under the largest moon.

 

But he didn’t.


And I held his hand anyway, held a bitter, defeated smile, all the while knowing he wasn’t the one.

This poem is about: 
Me

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