If I never said I loved you

Goodbyes that were not meant to be goodbye leave the strangest shadows over our hearts. Those kisses that were fleeting, light, and nothing like a last kiss, yet looking back, those tiny kisses in the rain were exit signs. You whispered something, as your mouth brushed the side of my face. I could feel the not-shaved-in-a-day stubble sting my skin, and it gifted me a slight smile. That feeling, one of my favorites with you.

As we parted, you going one way, me, stepping into a waiting car, I watched you slip into the shadows, a sigh escaping into the already too warm morning. I would look back later and know that right then I was in love with you. It would take years for me to realize it, though; it would be years too late. By then there would be no words to say.

I wish I had kissed you harder, standing there, feet half on the sidewalk, half in the street. The umbrella covering us felt humid and cloying, the droplets leaking through the tears in the fabric. You smelled of cigarettes and peppermint tea, I tasted of coffee and a nervous kind of fear. Your left hand grab hold of mine, fingers weaving between my fingers.

“We fit.”

Those were the last words you ever said to me.

Expecting to Fly (live) :: Emily Haines

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