I found you at 2 in the morning and I am not sure-not sure anymore-if you knew when it was. I think maybe the world has a different time for you, anyway. Because you look at me like you're seeing the world backwards. Or like I am walking in one direction and you're running backwards in the other, and you're always having to watch me get further and further away from you.
When really that's not true. Or it's not true to me.
Do you always see me running away and I see you running toward me?
Why are you here, Britt? I didn't know what words you wanted, and it made me think about the leaves falling from trees too fast, like I couldn't catch them, and then they were scattering around me on top of one another, and I would never see how they were meant to line up.
I used to think you would like for there to be no words at all, because then you wouldn't hurt so much when they won't do everything you want them to.
When I can't answer your questions I always try to give you other words instead. I like finding you. Because I don't know, I don't know why I am here. Why do I find you? I know that I like to. I know that it happens, again and again. Can't that be enough?
You should go.
Can you hear how you should go and I want you to go are not the same? One's so much more blurry than the looked up from the park bench, finally, and saw I was wearing my winter coat over my pajamas and saw my feet pushed into sneakers with no socks; the tops of my feet and my ankles were in the cold because my pajama pants are too short. I wonder if I looked odd. I must have, to everyone but you. I don't think you stared because of my clothes, though.
I wriggled on the spot, my hands deep in my pockets and the cold tickling up the big holes of my pant legs. You are beautiful outside at night. Your body must like the dark, I think. I wanted to kiss you, so I stepped closer, hoping you'd stand up and your body would face mine. But you looked away, like you were listening for something else, something not me.
Santana.
When I say your name into night-time, it sounds holy, and like it belongs there. Maybe that's why you like the night. Once I thought it was because you were hiding. Now I think it's safe to you.
I didn't wait this time, because I am tired of it. You weren't expecting me to kiss you; I could feel it in the cold of your lips and your breath pulling mine into your mouth. I could feel it in the tilt of your head, and I could feel it in your hand reaching for mine. No matter how many times I kiss you I don't think I will ever understand why you don't expect it.