what if i met you later,
after i stopped lying,
after Iris left and took my guilt with her.
what if i found you at that bon iver concert—
in the middle of the crowd,
lit dim and gold,
your voice singing softly to Holocene
like it meant something only you could understand.
maybe i would've asked your name
without hesitation.
maybe i would've meant it.
we'd talk about books, about coffee,
you'd mention your favorite sad movies,
i'd say i hate crying in public
and you'd laugh.
god, you'd fucking laugh.
and maybe—
instead of smoking alone in the parking lot,
i kissed you.
right there.
with no guilt, no "what will she say?"
no "i have a girlfriend"
buried in the back of my throat.
maybe we'd walk home,
fingers intertwined,
maybe you'd text me first in the morning.
maybe i'd pick you up from work at 5,
grab your hand in front of my friends
and actually mean it when i said,
"this is her. this is the girl."
maybe, for the first time,
i'd introduce a girl to my father.
not because i had to,
but because i wanted him to meet the woman
who made everything feel real again.