We Never Talked

I don't know
But it's nothing new
How to scrape
The colour of you
Off my hands
They're sore
From dragging your ghost
Across the floor

I hated the movie. And I wanted to call you to tell you that.
But then I remembered that I'd lost your number, that you were an ocean away, one day ahead of me, and I shouldn't care anymore.
But 'Before Sunset' pissed me off with its clever conversations and delicate gestures, reminding me of the time we talked for hours over anchovies pizza and cool beer, you complained about her, and I nodded and swore to myself that there was no way in hell or heaven or high waters that I would ever want you, and yet even then I did.

I hated the film because there was no kiss to make the perfect ending, while ours did nothing but begin something that never ended, because we
never talked after that time on the phone when you asked me if I wanted to tell you how I felt, and I secretly longed to both kill and kiss your cousin who had gone and told you two minutes after promising to keep my little crush a secret.

And after I told you, I said it didn't matter and I would move on, and I honestly think I would have if you hadn't reached across the car seat to rest your hand on my knee in that awkward way.

I tried to laugh at our foolishness, but the night was young and it was perfect in that Hollywood way, where you pushed my curls back and I smiled into your eyes, and the sun shone behind us in that perfect way as you leaned in to taste my watermelon lips, and then someone told us to break it up and we blushed.
Later on, you crept up behind me, curled your arms around my waist and said: "let's go to the beach",

and isn't it amazing how two years later
I still remember the small things, like when we held hands along the shore at night and the doorman of the house we were leaning against came out and asked us what we were doing, so you slipped a can ring around your finger and told him we were on our honeymoon.
(and now every time I open a soda can, I slip the ring on and turn it round and round)
I hated the film because it scared me that I could relate to a thirty-year-old woman who was sore and cynical after her first love, and I hate the fact that I'm almost there and last time we met you would not let me play with your hair or make shapes and braids the way I used to, and I slowly understood that you were never mine,

never truly, but I don't care.

I just wish I could go back to being the hopeful, naive little sucker who thought that true love existed and soul mates could meet, I wish I could tell you that I wrote about you once, long before we'd met, with your own true name and an accurate description of your hair falling in your eyes, and how we were best friends who fell in love and I could call to tell you I hated the film because it scared me that love could be this strong.
And I never will, because I've lost your number, and I was always yours, but we never talked, so here I am,

and I don't care.