If I could, I would walk away from our table, the three feet that separates my heart from yours, and split my skull open against the concrete wall, and walk back. I would let my head crash onto that table, and let you watch as my thoughts pour out in front of you. All of them, the thoughts and words that I fail to accurately tell you would finally reach you, so you could understand exactly what drifts in and out of my dreams and most sacred thoughts. There, on that table, would be the foundation for the rest of our lives, provided that you were not overwhelmed by the resilience and severity of my affection for you. The pain of bleeding my thoughts in front of you pales in comparison to the torture of bottleneck flow for the things I dare say to your face.
The face that I grew in love with, and have dreamed about night after night for the past year. It’s different now than the first time we kissed; it’s older, aged by the weights of stress and nights of little sleep due to heartache and homework. Heartache, caused by me, and the terrible things I’ve forced you to endure. Yet, despite seeing the pain that you carry alone upon your shoulders, and as my heart wishes nothing more than to carry that weight so you may sleep a full night’s rest, the rest of me thinks about how the cloud above my head wets the sidewalk with my own tears, how the moon becomes dirty when I look to it and ask for peace from the guilt I carry of leaving you. I left you, terribly. I left you, because of insecurity and instability. I look at you now, across this table, and see two things: the face of the woman I love, and the absence of possibility of a future together. And then you left me, as you always leave me, breathless.