Savannah

Before I knew;

You entered my room,

Closing the door behind you.

You smiled brightly.

Reminiscent of a kid being told they could stay up

past their bed time.

You get in the bed alongside me,

Draping the thick burgundy cover over your body.

My room was always really dark at night.

However,

In this 3:00 AM moment;

The stars had been slow dancing outside.

The sky is public for all,

But the dance they were doing felt like it was just for

us.

Intimate.

Sacred.

I faced you,

And you, me.

We stared at each other,

Walking to the water together.

It was so silent,

You could hear our hearts beating.

Same rhythm.

Same beat.

Same pace.

“West Savannah” by Isaiah Rashad starts playing in

my head when I look at you.

The song is only 2 minutes and 47 seconds,

Yet filled with an immense amount of hurt and

heartache;

The same amount of heartache travels through me.

You pull me closer,

And our foreheads touch.

My thumb traces your cheek,

And the remaining four fingers are placed on your

ear.

Your hand locates my waist.

We are so close.

So close.

I feel everything.

The warmth of your body.

The cool 3:00 AM summer air that has somehow

made its way under the covers to join us.

Your breath.

Our toes brushing against one another’s gently.

You look at me,

As if you’re begging me to begin swimming first.

But I am so scared.

I don’t know where to start.

I know I can’t begin here.

Not like this.

Not with loose ends.

You feel safe,

And warm.

You are orange during golden hour.

You are the orange sky holding hands with yellow,

Kissing blueish-grey “hello” before he takes over for

the night shift.

I whisper to you,

Asking you what’s on your mind.

Scared of what you’ll say.

“How bad I want to kiss you.”

I hear you loud and clear.

But if it wasn’t so silent,

I swear I wouldn’t have.

You say it so softly,

Like you’re scared, too.

This wasn’t planned.

We both know.

But here we are.

We don’t want to turn back,

And we don’t.

We are in the water together now.

“Me too.” I say.

Almost softer than you.

We’re kids at a sleepover who should’ve been

sleeping hours ago.

Speaking faintly to one another,

Being careful to not wake our parents.

“But I can’t.”

And it hurts.

It hurts to say that.

It tears me apart.

“West Savannah” continues in my mind.

It echos softly.

I want to cry.

I know I’m making the right choice here.

But this is a right choice that hurts me.

You nod.

You don’t push me away.

You don’t let me go.

You don’t break eye contact.

Your eyes get glossy and you nod.

“I know.”

You say even lower than before.

Your voice is a pillow.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You say it twice.

I don’t know if it’s as reassurance,

Or if you think I can’t understand the softness of

your voice,

But hearing it said twice hurts.

It breaks me.

Tears almost make their way out of my eyes.

I don’t want to become the water we are meant to

swim in.

I shut them before they escape and we drown.

“You don’t have to be.”

And I mean it.

I really do.

We went into the water together,

It isn’t only you.

You pull me in closer,

My hand says goodbye to your cheek and greets

your back.

Your lips meet my forehead.

You inhale so deeply,

It’s the loudest noise both of us have heard in a

while.

I’m convinced my Cheirosa ’62 has coated every

single hair in your nostrils.

We are embraced in the darkness.

“I’m sorry.” You say again.

I nod,

Because if I talk,

I will cry.

I will become the water we are meant to swim in

together and I can’t do that right now.

I close my eyes a final time.

I don’t know how,

But the next time they open;

The sun is out,

Making its appearance to the world once again.