I could see you were taking mental pictures of
me again. It was seven a.m. and the kitchen was flooded with the light of a
winter storm. Drops wouldn’t let me see beyond the window, but the city sure
was sad and humid. You liked me in your kintted sweater, sweated from the
morning sex, disheveld, all broken and messy and natural. You enjoyed to see me
the way no one else did.
Maybe that’s why you made me cry so much. I
wasn’t fragile, or at least I didn’t wanted anybody to think I was. And you got me the day we met. You saw I was damaged.
And you knew it would take just a little more pain for me to finally shatter
into pieces. I don’t blame you, dear. I never would. You were exactly what I had been looking for.
Strong enough to love me, strong enough to break me. Even if I wanted to, I
couldn’t blame you.
Hold on, right there,
don’t move
You took the camera and quickly took two
photos, and went back to bed.
