Her face perpetually turned just eversoslightly to one side and one hand always tucked between her crossed legs. Crossed away from me if that matters. In retrospect I almost believe it did. Her family made me a part of them, but really they were just watching and making sure.

I never even kissed her. How long were we together? Two years? Three? Enough that I should've seen.
Back then a lonely touch or whispered word still had all the power in the world. Everything was possible while nothing really was.

I'd catch her peeking through the shades as her older brother (my 'friend') pulled out of their driveway, giving me a ride home after a long day of stolen glances and fragile words.

She could never look me in the eye without giggling. What did I mistake that for? Her eyes were always so, so, so goddamnedmotherfucking cold!
That I mistook for depth.

I can't believe she didn't love me, but how could she have? When I was broken she made me more so. When all I wanted was to have her arms around me and those soft, eternal words on her lips and mine.

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