i have always been loneliest in the waning of an afternoon.
there’s a spot on my bed that shines perfectly in warmly fading golden light at half five; rays gentled through the slats of the dusty blinds that stay down all the time. i lie in the pool of light, sometimes, let the shadows play over my sweat-slicked skin. it is obscenely lonely.
i never liked sharing beds, but i didn’t mind when it was you. or you. or even you. i liked the gentle weight of a hand resting on my hip and the calculated space of a sun-drenched afternoon nap. the press of lips against my nape would make me shift, nervous and delighted in the exact same second, a fuzzy mix.
i gave it all up to be with you; didn’t mind that we needed separate beds and separate rooms and never once managed to spit out the question on the tip of my tongue every second of every day: do you really love me?
there was an afternoon when you wriggled into the space between me and the wall. pressed your face against my shoulder and the heat of you burned into me like a brand. your skin was translucent in the pool of sun, the dimming golden glow of a fading afternoon, green-gray veins like ghostly tidepools just beneath the surface and i closed my eyes against the water brimming and swallowed down the heavy molten lump of loneliness.
i never once managed to ask, not even when i left, because you only ask for answers you already know if you want to hear them.
(do you really love me?
but not the way you want.)