Leaving.

we never actually said goodbye.
“i’ll see you in a couple months, okay?” i said. you grabbed my face with your hands and pulled it right up against yours. forehead to forehead, stared into my eyes. up this close your eyes weren’t even eyes, they were fuzzy green glows, wet white messes that blocked out my vision. you held my face like that for almost half an hour and you didn’t cry once, but your hands shook. on my way down i stopped on the stairs and i waited and listened. you brushed your teeth, packed some boxes, urinated.
later that week when i realized i’d never see you again these were the things that reminded me of you. brushing teeth, packing boxes, urinating. the shapes that you made in the sheets.
all those times i’d hold you while you cried. “i want to love you more than i’ve ever wanted to love anything,” you’d say. and i’d tell you, “maybe that’s what love is.”
“no,” you’d say. “no. it’s not.”