The panic in your eyes when I took that first picture. You were sitting in your armchair in your living room, holding your phone, looking through me—you will never be more beautiful.
How much you loved lions of any kind, and when we went to the zoo just to see one. I remember I was scared of getting too close; you said as long as I was with you, I’d be fine. Right.
Your love for cats.
How much you are like your aunt—by the way, I don’t know how to break it to you, but I am pretty sure she’s gay. I am pretty sure we already discussed this. Then we probably laughed. Then we probably made love.
You cried when I cried—and considering I cried a lot, man, that must have sucked for you.
How you locked me in a small mental box and buried it somewhere far, far down; how from someone you loved I became a crazy stalker, a mentally deranged person. You went from kissing my shins to avoiding me on the streets; from stroking my hair to fucking coworkers; from like-liking me to discarding my things like they were of no use. I mean, what did you do with the love?
That last dinner we had—you didn’t wait for me to finish eating.
How you hated beets, my mispronounced words, or being seen. Sometimes I think that’s the reason.
The hesitation in your voice when I asked if you wanted me; the insecurity in your “yes”. Have you noticed the despair in my question? That I had to phrase it; that I had to voice it.
All this silence.
Your green sneakers—that you would have let me pass you by.
How much I reminded you of your mother; the way I made the bed, washed the dishes right after, and always needed to control everything—especially you. Isn’t that what you think?
How you’d rather never speak to me again than face the loss; than ask for help; than feel the weight of abandoning someone important.
All this silence.
You tried to break up with me at a lousy beer place, but I ordered only sides and somehow that changed your mind—for about a week.
How my longing feels like pressure, yet my distance feels like treason; that you will never forgive me for missing you or writing these poems (it’s all the same); how I will never forgive myself for staying so long. I should have left the first time my stomach dropped, but we both know I didn’t really mean it.
How you still look for your father’s approval: the car, the job, the apartment, the “I am proud of you, son”. But does he really know you?
How you kissed my shins; my arms; my face…
See…I noticed everything. That’s why you left, isn’t it?
The last 3 letters of the spring 
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