You used to blow into my ear while I was trying to fall asleep.
I’d laugh and pull off both of our shirts, kiss your chest and ears and eyelids until neither of us could breathe. Afterwards you’d sleepily call me your little snuggle puppy, curve your body around mine, and just when you’d close your eyes I’d laugh and blow into your ear.
We never used to have any change because we’d go downtown and feed the parking meters by hand, like they were curious metal monsters. You could never resist helplessness, which is probably why you love me.
I used to make up songs about your socks. I used to rub your back in front of your parents. I used to fiddle with your knees while you drove. I used to cry on the phone to you about my ex. I used to tell you that you and I would never be anything more than friends.
(I used to believe it, too. But you never did.)
You used to wear jeans that were dyed fuschia. You used to finish off my bowls of melted ice cream. You used to push me on the swings, higher, higher. You used to kiss the insides of my weak wrists and tell me that broken things are beautiful.
I wonder if you ever believed that, either.
But now you’re a lifetime and a calendar away, and we are learning to live with the “now"s instead of the "used to"s.
Now you write me letters every day. Now you call me but the reception is always bad. Now you tell me youmissme youmissme youmissme.
Now I have pocketfuls of change to spend feeding parking meters by myself, and pocketfuls of minutes to spend learning to live without you.