"So now what?"
Your voice rose, a song, and I hung myself on that question mark.
In therapy, you repeated that question so much that Dr. Weisman had rolled her eyes, clapped her hands, and taken a long vacation to South Africa. Apartheid was easier to end than our relationship.
If I had opened my mouth, three little words might have tripped out truthfully.
I might have said "I love you."
Or, to put it another way, "It is over."
Again: "I can't deal."
Three truths trilling on the tip of my tongue, and all I could think of was your name.
I loved your name in blue inky hearts that I hid in the margins of my notes. Your name, esses lassoing on the end of neon-pink-post-its declaring your love at lunchtime.
Alyssa, downstairs in my striped shirt, lips red like Kool-Aid.
Alyssa, in a silk dress.
Alyssa, a sigh, a silence.
I watch myself get up and go.