The steps are cold but we sit anyway, needing to be grounded, woken. The smoke drifts from your fingertips and wraps around the moon. I knew that, in that moment, you were wishing I was someone else. She’s only upstairs, her long brown hair tangled in the fingers of her newest love, but she might as well be up there with the moon for all the good it does you. You will never tell her how you feel.
We go back to my room. The silence between us is deep but gentle. You used to accuse me of filling all the best silences. And I did; I felt uneasy in your company, wanting always to impress. But all unease is gone now. We squeeze the last of it out from the gaps between us, scratchy wool jumpers and your hot tears all over.
We don’t say much before you leave but I feel your lips on my hair just before your arms release
I realised: I’d never seen you cry before.