trying to memorize every second?—
how he has a hand wrapped around the mic
like it’s the back of my neck.
How his fingers curl around the stand,
remembering how it feels to hold me.
How he licks his bottom lip between lyrics,
still tasting the night at Type.
Because some fucked-up part of me knows
this might be the last time I get to see him.
Someone taps my shoulder from behind.
I don’t turn, ignoring him.
Pretend you don’t feel it, they’ll go away.
Until the hand lands on my shoulder.
My whole body moves without moving.
Blood, bones, lungs—it all flinches.
He leans closer, over my shoulder.
His voice, mouth, and breath all hit my ear at once—“Had to say… you’re gorgeous.”
My gaze whips behind me.
Five words, like spider-legs inside my ear, crawling down my bones.
Five words, five lit matches dragging across a wound.
I spin, pulling away.
“Don’t fuckin’ sneak up on me.”
The guy backs up, both palms up in surrender,
staring at me as if I’m overreacting.
“Yo, chill the fuck out. I was bein’ nice.”
For a split second, guilt slams into me.
For a split second, I feel like the bitch.
I made a scene. Blew it up. Acted crazy.
I should smile and say thank you next time.
But then?—
