BRENDA SERRANO

Dear you,

I get myself into these predicaments
always with a punchline at the end.

In three weeks, I had written an epilogue,
rehearsed my lines for our imagined two-hour rom-com,
and found myself smitten.

Another story was unfolding right in front of me.
So, here you are.

Sage eyes, with a pierce so warm
I can’t help but hold my gaze, just a little longer, just a little deeper.
My eyes fall to your lips as you speak.

Such a unique, genuine smile.
I’m listening closely to the story you’re telling,
your tongue gently brushing your teeth,
a slight lisp softening every word.

Black ink climbed up your arms
a striking contrast to the softness in your tone.

Soon, we’re sitting in hours of conversation and laughter.
You swept your fingers so gently over my ache.
The first to notice, nothing asked, nothing said.

I knew it would end
but not like this.
Not so peacefully.

I hold myself back from apologizing.
I know my tone can come across like stone, hard, cold.
But I’m not sorry.

I’m hurt, by the interaction
short and boring.

Still, I remain upright.
Shoulders back.
Unapologetic.

You were here.
Not long enough,
but just enough to have me daydreaming.

Fingers interlaced as I brush, so faintly, against your lips
giggling like I’m fifteen all over again.

You whispered gently,
“You have to let me in on the joke, at least.”

I replied with a wide grin,
“You.”

Sincerely,