I sit up a little straight every time your footsteps approach.
Pit pat pit pat they come, and then fade away.
Always the same. Saunter. That’s the word. The smell the sound the touch.
The touch of a saunter is creepy. Yet I always forget that when you touch me. Touched me.
I have listened for that footstep for a hundred years now, waiting for it to hurry a little when it is close to me, to stop by my door. To be warm.
Warm, warm, warm.
When did we forget warmth? When was the last time it felt like sunshine when I entered your door? Now every glance is preparation for a storm. Every breath anticipates a shipwreck.
I think I chose you to make myself believe that I can choose. I think you chose me because you knew I was the only one deluded enough to choose for the sake of it. I think you chose me because you knew I’ll justify my choice till I choke. I am stubborn like that. I am prideful like that.
Was it pride then, that made me think you chose me?
Then pride must be dying of a bitter laugh now. I can’t beg you to choose me again, because you never did.
You never will.
In Other Words 