gold

a year ago, she read my hands and gave me answers to questions i wasn’t sure i wanted to ask. she said you wouldn’t be around long, that i should love you while i could and then let go.

you woke me up that night, the phone ringing late. you were drunk and sad and missing me. i was tired and sad and missing everything. we talked for a few minutes, my voice low but seeming loud in the silence of the room. i don’t remember if i said i love you before i said goodnight, but if i didn’t, i’m sorry.

i meant to. i meant it.

i love you in a way only you’d understand.

i came home and told you about her fingertips tracing the creases of my fingers, the lines and hollows of my palms. i told you about the cards spread across the table. i told you everything except how she told me you were impermanent. i refused to believe it. i refused to let go.

a year ago, i knew that no matter where i ended up, i’d look, and find, your fingerprints on my heart.

some things, you know are true.