So there’s a picture somewhere of that kiss, you know the one. It’s the sort of picture that perhaps shouldn’t have been taken, and certainly shouldn’t have been shared the next morning. Cameras are everywhere, even when you aren’t the one snapping selfies with abandon.
So there’s a picture. That night was warm and fragrant, with violets blooming in every nook and cranny of the courtyard in the purple moonlight and warm rain. Everything passing was watching us, stopping, staring, posing, mocking, photographing. But we didn’t notice anything but each other.
But that was then. Now I just have my memories and that picture. I remember you left and the world became a cold and bleak place without you around. I’ve wondered since then what went wrong. Was I too demanding? Was I too bold like my father was? Were you too much like my mother? I don’t know any more, but it seems like we yell a lot now. A lot. And I don’t like how it sounds. (Kinda like doves crying.)
I don’t know what I want to do. I want you back. I want back how we felt that night. I think about your touch, and I get butterflies, but you have them all tied up. I can’t chase you. I have my pride. And I’m confused.
I’m not too demanding. I’m not too bold. Still sounding like doves crying. Not sure why that image leaps to mind.
But I’m standing alone in the cold with weeping birds wondering if I’ve done wrong or what went wrong.
And doves are crying.
Please don’t cry.