Columbus

There is a photo of you and me on a tour bus in Washington, D.C.
My head is on your shoulder, and
your cheek is pressed against my hair, we smile as we sleep,
our hands entwined between us like they are glued together with our tears and
sweat and saliva and blood - everything we've shared, everything we
touched each other with.

Back then, for me, every day was Columbus Day.

I liked your smiles, but I always preferred  the moments between
them, when your blue (oh! were they blue!) eyes were cast at the
floor. Was that you being timid? You being sad? Thoughtful? I never
thought to ask. I was so selfish. You were so beautiful.

I loved you hovering over me, chest heaving as you tried to breathe
and kiss me at the same time. I tried to get closer to you, and
we would tangle in the sheets around us, losing track of everything
because our bodies pressed together were the only things that
mattered, until our parents realized we had been alone together too
long, and we tore apart in a frenzy of mussed hair, wrinkled
clothes, and laughter.

I remember kissing you under the streetlamp on the corner by
your house. We always did it backwards. I walked you home. But,
you always claimed home was with me. I always blushed and told
you to never leave.

But, you ran away from home, and I don't blame you. I was an
unstable house and I wore out with your use. I
was not enough to support you and I crumbled.

I've been rebuilt now. My foundations are the same, but all of the
bricks that make up my form are different. I am warm and
secure, and I can handle almost any amount of pressure.

But, you've found a new home. She is beautiful.
I won't say I'm not happy for you. But, you still make me quake,
and she makes me ache. I hope you are comfortable.

I remain vacant. You were the only one who ever made me feel full.