Do you remember that fitting black body suit I wore? The smell of raspberry and on my neck and my silky straightened hair? Do you recall the questions I asked you under the moonlight because I craved to know every bit of your life? Can you replay the way my eyes twinkled as I smiled because you said my name?

Of course you can't,
and you won't.
That November night you never showed up.

We had planned for a week,
I was giddy as butterflies swarmed my chest.
I made last minute runs for everything to be perfect.
Until I was driving home and I got your text.
I had to tell the bugs in my body that they were no longer beautiful and to pack up and go home. In their wake they left me as empty as barren as a dry bank where a river once lay.
You had forgotten your plans and apologized and I lied and said it was alright.
That should've been the first warning for me.
I offered next time, but you never agreed.
That was a second warning to me.
You went to follow through with your plans and I for 24 hours I didn't hear a thing.
That should've been warning three.
Every time for weeks after I offered up another plan, but you never accepted so I eventually gave up.
And I waited for you to ask for me, like I did for you so many times,
But for every reach for your hand in security, I was left falling.