I keep thinking about the time I almost kissed her.
We had been together the whole night. Her boyfriend was coming over to her house so she was rushing.
It was so dark out and my heart was so fucking full.
She hugged me good bye and bent to kiss my cheek but the angle wasn’t exactly right.
That second of adjustment was the longest in the world, when we pulled back and looked at each other, then pressed our cheeks together in the airy sort of kiss socialites and drag queens give away like they’re worthless.
And when I pulled back, my fingers skimming the whippet thin curve of her ribs, our eyes met and we knew.
She fucking knew.
and I couldn’t tell her I loved her, or pull her to me dramatically and kiss her like they do in movies because I was scared and the timing wasn’t right.
The timing would never be right.
Because I can’t snatch two people apart from each other with the brute force of my desire, and I can’t kick our friend group apart to taste a dream.
And I’m not frustrated because I know this is my choice.
But I wish I could share the depth of my sacrifice with someone else who knows her as well as I do, who can understand why I always want to hold her hand.