I was driving home from his house that night. Him being that guy I was dating who wasn't you. He was sweet, and he was kind, and attentive, and he liked me more than you ever did.
But that night I was driving home and thinking of you. Thinking of the taste of Kahlua and milk on your lips, the way your eyes light up when you're excited, spinning like little blue-green planets. Thinking of your fingers trailing along hills and hollows of my hips and back. And most of all, thinking about the six months that had passed since I last spoke to you.
I should have been angry. I should have been furious with you, ignoring my phone calls and pretending not to see me in the bookstore. But I knew I never could be, because of that cracking feeling in my heart. The fact that you could cause me physical pain was astonishing. It was like someone had poked greedy fingers into my chest and wrapped them around my lungs.
When I started to cry, it was like I would never stop. I could barely see, salty streams coursing furiously down red cheeks. Cars were honking, lights flashing red and yellow, but I couldn't stop driving. I couldn't stop crying. And I couldn't stop the words from pounding down over me:
But I’m not seeing you look at me, So please won’t you look at me? Or I am not anything ...