Someday you’ll be broken out of a stupor of old records and shitty coffee to keep you from sleeping (since I know you would rather loose your mind than have those nightmares again) by the ringing of a doorbell and you’ll let me in at three in the morning and put a cold cloth on my forehead and gently push you away every time I try to kiss you because my breath smells like whiskey and you know we’d both regret it in the morning.
Someday I’ll fall asleep with a tear-stained pillow against my chest, and my little notebook filled with the scraps of love letters I’ll never deliver will be laying open on the ground from when I hurled it against the wall after I couldn’t figure out the way to write about this new level of heartache. It’ s hard to imagine you breaking my heart, but I won’t rule it out as a possible act of revenge.
Someday I’ll be able to say the words “I love you” without choking like they’re stuck in my throat, but for now please just stay and listen when I tell you that I can see new colors every time you smile. For a writer, it means the same thing, but as the cuts fade to scars, I’ll remember that the phrase isn’t as tabooed as I had once made myself think.