baby, for now

I didn’t know it was the last time, and maybe that was the only mercy in it.

The last time we met, I didn’t know it was going to be the last. If I had known, I would have held on longer, or looked at you a little more carefully, or said something worth remembering instead of whatever small thing I actually said. I think I said I’d see you soon. I meant it when I said it.

That was our last kiss, and I let it end the way you let an ordinary thing end, because I thought there would be another one waiting for me somewhere down the week. It was the last time I felt your warmth, and I walked away from it without turning around, like someone who was sure they’d be back.

Now I keep going back to that day and turning it over in my hands. I wonder if what we had was a hallucination we decided to make together, a soft little world we built because the real one was too cold to live in. Or maybe it was real, as real as anything I have ever touched, and we just weren’t allowed to taste it for very long.

I don’t know which answer would hurt less. (maybe neither. maybe both)

What I do know is that when you said “for now,” I heard “forever,” and I think you knew I would.

So, baby, for now. Wherever now is for you, I hope it’s warm.