Epilogue

Your eyes reminded me of toasted hazelnuts, and when we kissed I would keep mine open just a little longer than you. I didn't want to miss seeing them so close to my own, melting like chocolate in my pocket as your lids began to close.

I forgot to tell you that we'd stopped speaking, so you just went on talking, questioning. Asking, "what do you think of me, really?" Really? Truly? I'm still trying to figure you out. But if you have to ask I can guess that you're unsure yourself, a little lost but not completely gone yet.

You showed up in my dreams to drive me to nowhere. You quizzed me on my knowledge of art museums, scoffing with pretension when I'd never heard of your made up museums. Then you turned to me with a sheepish grin, the one you saved for one-upping me at Did-You-Know? and said, "We were never in love, you know." And like I always did, I shrugged it off, pretended to be offended that you felt the need to remind me. At the end of your drive we found my kitchen, and you took a nap on the floor while I watched the neighbor boy bike through my backyard.

Hazelnuts for eyes aside, I think I regretted most that we were never going to climb the tobacco tree on the street between our houses. That we weren't, that I wouldn't; because who wants to sit in a tree alone, knowing something's missing?