I like to think that we met at the wrong time.
It was August and you wore your blue flannel shirt that smelled like lavender and you listened to the bands that I liked. I told you that I was scared to cross roads on my own, and even more scared to hold somebody’s hand and you just laughed and held my hand like that’s how it was always supposed to be. And I could only think about how right your mother was about your stupid laugh.
But that one night when we were a little too drunk and we sat in silence on the stairs outside your house, I saw your fingers still intertwined with your past. Your eyes, still searching for someone else in mine. Her name, still the first name on your mind when you thought about love. And I could only look at my own hands holding on to the thin air, holding on to nothing a little too tight.
That’s when I realized that sometimes puzzle pieces can get so frayed at the edges with the time that when they are finally next to each other, they don’t fit.
And I never blamed you. I still don’t.
Because I know, love can be everything.
Just never enough.
Let me be with you rather than your memories love.