He told me how he had loved every inch of her.
From her hair roots to the dirt she stood on.
How the little talks they had at midnight made his insides burn with aching butterflies born from a mosh pit.
How the sight of her back made him want to chase after her silloette.
And then he told me the story of him running into her at our local supermarket and how he had watched her pick up her favorites: Doritos and Raspberry Arizona Tea. How she had kept her head low when she passed him by and that was how he knew she would never give him another chance.
That even if that were to be, he would still welcome her with open arms because she was the reason he woke up and dreamed and breathed in the life that he did.
And all I could think to myself was, ‘Can he not see how I ache for his arms to be open for me?’
I wish he spoke poetry about me