She wants to tell me how she really feels, but she’s scared. I can see that. I used to know everything about her movements, her quirks, her kinks, every twitch of her expressive face, all those gestures and micro expressions were my poetry every day, my Bible I read from; her—the only one I could ever pray to and trust. And I have smashed all of our love down into unrepairable pieces. My girl with nighttime skin and eyes full of starry constellations, what have I done to you?
