I make decisions out of fear for regret.

yours are inflicted upon you.

 

at 10:04 am on the 3rd day of this month

(57 days after I last saw you in that same apartment we said goodbye 9 months ago, and cried 7 weeks together about the pain of breaking each other’s hearts)

you told me a tale of last moments.

 

about 6 years ago you drew eyes on the top of your chin, resting your head on my legs, you covered the top half of your face with your right hand as your mouth spoke upside down at me.

 

your voice bubbled the words “I love you” a few weeks later, as I cut chocolate hazelnut biscotti before placing it back into the oven.

 

I still smell the crisp air and mucus that sits right above your cupid’s bow after you stepped off your bike and into our room every night.

 

your top lip is upturned, angled and just a bit slimmer than the bottom.

 

through a distorted image on my computer, you said you felt blood coat your lungs. you rub your mouth. I see the cracks of your skin trapped with her memory.

 

I don’t kiss those lips anymore, you tell me someone else does. You ask me if you should fly to Tokyo. I can’t convince my mind to say yes, yours says “I can’t be with you.”

 

I fold; to organize, preserve, make sense of things,

and give up.