The Pictures We Didn’t Take.

These are the pictures we didn’t take : Us, seated across each other in the small booth at the back of a gloomy pub. Your fingers drumming the table absently, mine knotting my skirt into little abstract pieces. The skirt I had spent hours picking, the pub you had googled ten minutes before picking me up.

This is a picture I didn’t take of our first kiss in the rain, at the back of your rented minivan outside your mother’s grave. I’ve never felt this close to someone, your solemn words drown out my palpitating heart.

This is the picture I did not take of me; engulfed in the huge blanket I swore we did not need. Your warmth saturating our tiny pre war apartment. Your messy shirts spread absently over the sofa obscuring my skirt from view.

This is the picture I did not take of you and me; overwhelming April, I’m explaining to you that every time the heat rises, another one of our layers peel off.

This is the picture I did not take of you, sighing tenderly as you say I don’t know if I should get into a relationship right now. I’m not prepared for the commitment. Me, laughing nervously as I try not to let the emotions choke me- It’s fine, I wasn’t going to date you anyway

This is the picture I did not take of me; packing my bags for the 21st time in 12 months. The mess we have made reflects off every immaculate surface. My purple pastels hide the marks of your fingernails- Please stay, come home. 

This is the picture I did not take of us, standing on the edge between laughter and disaster, shouting and crying, empty heartbeats in a hurricane.

This is the picture I didn’t take of me, smudged mascara bleeding onto the terminal, my racing footsteps trying to cover the miles that separate us. You, hanging with your heavy heart online begging me to come back.

This is the picture I didn’t take of our texts, the screenshots deleted. I crashed into your tornado, exposed, with my forgotten parachute and bullet beaten armour. You stood unwavering, surfing through my many tides  like a pro. 

This is the picture I didn’t take of our tiny apartment in the middle of  3rd and 66th. Of all the pictures adorning the walls, my most treasured is the one with you spread across the overtly huge blanket smiling at me in my skirt, whining about how late we are to make our reservation at your favorite pub.

 

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