What I Wanted To Say

“I wonder where we’ll be in ten years,”
You said as you traced your palm lines with your finger.

I looked at you,
Your eyes blue against the 6:00 pm sky.
I’ll still be here, I wanted to say,
Looking at those eyes, oh those eyes,
Looking at you.

But instead I said,
“You’ll be wherever you’ve always wanted to go.”

You thought for a second,
Looked above the empty sky, to my eyes,

“I’ll be in space,
Floating and possibly not breathing.” You replied smiling.

How easy for you,
I wanted to say,
To tell me that you can’t possibly survive in space.
When I can’t breathe just by looking at you and those eyes,
oh those eyes, looking at me.

Right then and there, I could’ve sworn that gravity does not exist.
That I could fly by the mere way of you sitting beside me,
Our elbows barely touching, the sweet smell of sweat on the back of your neck,
Your voice dancing in the darkness with crickets –a symphony.

Take me, I wanted to say,
By the hand and let’s fly, to wherever you’ve always wanted to go,
To space, let my exhales be your inhales, let’s breathe each other to survive.

Trace the lines of my palm, I wanted to say,
And just look at me with those eyes, oh those eyes.

“You wanted to say something?” You asked.

“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing at all.”

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