Words Touch
The rain had stopped, but the windows still carried the memory of it, streaks clinging to glass like the sky hadn’t fully let go. We were sitting on the floor of her apartment, backs resting against the edge of her bed, a dim lamp throwing golden light on the hardwood. Her socks didn’t match. My tea had gone cold. We hadn’t noticed.
My notebook lay open beside us. A few half-lines scrawled across the page. I had stopped mid-thought.
She read it anyway.
“You always do that,” she said, tracing the ink lightly with her finger. “Leave the ending open.”
“Some things don’t need endings,” I said.
She tilted her head, smiled faintly. “Or you’re scared of them.”
I didn’t deny it.
There was a silence then, the kind that doesn’t rush to be filled. Her knee touched mine. Not on purpose. Not exactly by mistake either.
I looked at her. The kind of look you don’t try too hard to hold, but don’t want to lose. Softly, I asked, “Can I kiss you?”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Instead, she smiled.
“You can always kiss my heart with your poetry.”
My breath caught somewhere between a smile and a sigh.
I didn’t lean in. I didn’t need to.
Her words had already reached me.
Later, when we were closer, her head on my shoulder, my thumb tracing a circle on her wrist, I asked, barely above a whisper, “Will I miss you?”
She shifted slightly, looked up.
“No,” she said, with that calm certainty only she had.
“Because I will always be there in your poetry.”
She said it like a promise.
And I believed her.
Because even after she stood up, even after I left and the night deepened, I could still hear her words echoing, like verses written on the inside of my ribs.
Some kisses aren’t on lips.
Some goodbyes don’t mean absence.
And some people, you never really lose them.
They just become the lines you keep rewriting. Forever.
My notebook lay open beside us. A few half-lines scrawled across the page. I had stopped mid-thought.
She read it anyway.
“You always do that,” she said, tracing the ink lightly with her finger. “Leave the ending open.”
“Some things don’t need endings,” I said.
She tilted her head, smiled faintly. “Or you’re scared of them.”
I didn’t deny it.
There was a silence then, the kind that doesn’t rush to be filled. Her knee touched mine. Not on purpose. Not exactly by mistake either.
I looked at her. The kind of look you don’t try too hard to hold, but don’t want to lose. Softly, I asked, “Can I kiss you?”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Instead, she smiled.
“You can always kiss my heart with your poetry.”
My breath caught somewhere between a smile and a sigh.
I didn’t lean in. I didn’t need to.
Her words had already reached me.
Later, when we were closer, her head on my shoulder, my thumb tracing a circle on her wrist, I asked, barely above a whisper, “Will I miss you?”
She shifted slightly, looked up.
“No,” she said, with that calm certainty only she had.
“Because I will always be there in your poetry.”
She said it like a promise.
And I believed her.
Because even after she stood up, even after I left and the night deepened, I could still hear her words echoing, like verses written on the inside of my ribs.
Some kisses aren’t on lips.
Some goodbyes don’t mean absence.
And some people, you never really lose them.
They just become the lines you keep rewriting. Forever.