Yellow

The sunset tonight made me think of you.

It was hazy and soft.

It's September now,

and you're off producing another song

about an alternate universe where

we run away together.

And I am just here,

writing about the way you'd sleep next to me.

Your arm draped across my waist.

How you'd wake up and squint a little

and touch my face—

almost like you didn't believe I was real;

almost like you thought you were still dreaming.

You left and I let you,

but I wish things were different.

I wish we still talked.

. . .

I only want to remember the good parts.

My hands in your hair.

You kissing my neck.

Eating breakfast in my bed.

Driving to get beer at midnight.

Falling asleep to the sound of rain.

Not the part where you tripped on acid

and turned your phone off for the whole weekend.

Not the part where I crawled back to you anyway.

Not the part where I dreamt you met someone else

and woke up choking.

Not the part where you lied to me

and cried confessing.

It wasn't love but it felt like it.

Sometimes it felt like it.

. . .

I drove past your work after church

and saw your car in the parking lot.

I wanted to leave a note on your window.

It'd say something like,

I'm feeling yellow today.

Or, Will we ever talk again?

I guess I just need you to know

that it all meant something to me too.

I miss you fiercely.

I drew the line but here I am—

wishing that you'd cross it.

Maybe this is just the hard part of healing.