Two years ago

Two years ago, I met you at a train station.

I'd had noble intentions when I got off the train. Despite the weight of unsaid words, of prolonged looks, of leaden decisions, I told myself I could resist for a while longer. I could let things simmer.

These intentions fled from me the instant I saw you, and vanished from my memory the moment you grabbed my hand with unflinching confidence. I recall nothing of the movie flickering before my face. I only recall the touch of your fingers on my wrist, the prickling of goosebumps, and the sand I dumped from my shoes when I returned home late that night.

One year ago, I turned to cross the street, and you said "I love you " with absolute clarity. I was so shocked, and already overtaken by the flow of crosswalk people, I just turned back to you with my eyes wide. You were out of view by the time I crossed the street. I breathlessly grabbed my cell phone to dial you back, to reassure myself that I had not imagined that fleeting, unexpected moment.

I hadn't.

Today, my skin still damp from the shower, I slipped back into the covers. The sun was peeking through the blinds, drawing patterns on your back, and you grabbed me tightly. 

Happy anniversary, mister.