quiet
You didn't know how to act around him, and knew only that you couldn't stop the helpless upward tug of your lips whenever you were together.
Ghosts are always behind you, or just to the side, or maybe their hand is slipped inside yours and they're leading you forward, always one step ahead. You can't forget -- you think you might, but they're always, always there, waiting for you to remember them again.
You weigh heavy on my mind, memories made stone, like I could pick one up and throw it through the glass windows around my heart and remember, suddenly, the color of your eyes.
I hope that you're happy and that it was worth it, because I cried over you and still do.
His hands are slim around the stem of the glass, the wine swirling and catching light that flashes back at you in bursts of crystal red.
And you swallow it down, the words sticking in your throat -- but you can't cough them out either. You can't speak.