You and I, we knew it was our last time together.
It was instinctive, the words were unneeded and unsaid.
We knew, you and I, and we accepted it individually,
but did not acknowledge it.
The silence in the room was pierced by the rhythm
your breathing took against mine.
And as we calmed down,
my head in your arms,
your heartbeat at the back of my head,
your fingers found a pattern on my naked skin.
They traced circles as if the lines in your palm could
gather memories with every touch
and hold them infinite.
I should have told you that iridescent memories can only be
created, but never clasped.
They don't endure.
We did something different that day when we didn't
smoke like we always did.
I didn't ask for it.
I couldn't.
The thought that a shared cigarette would end
with a kiss on my parting lips would mean
there was a chance this ritual would happen again.
I was leaving.
I should have told you about iridescent memories.
I should have told you that
everything beautiful is ephemeral.
