Sitting on a thorn across the table from you. I stare at the repercussions of my inability to be the person you crave. I am dining face to face with a year’s worth of disappointments and mistakes, negotiating with the judgement day angels for a safe passage way.
Your sadness slinks across the tabletop like a salty snake and curls up in my Italian cream cake. I smile as I chew but it’s obvious this meal is pickled just like the promises we made.
I never thought I would be the architect of your despair. The arches I drew on the vellum paper now built channeling sorrow. Doorways bricked up, windows canceled and all sun light banished from our encore.
I stand at the construction site, knee deep in mud, wrinkled scrolls of blueprints in my hands, trying to make sense of the illegitimate monster we created whose clawed paws now we must clasp with love. His silence and sorrow is ours to keep as a keepsake of the rift between what was and what could have been. In that empty apartment with neighbors constantly arguing, your enthusiasm on that first date echoing endlessly dancing with my unmitigated disdain.