Chapter 2. We meet again. The 60-minute cast-away didn’t stick, I see. You didn’t burn off. Not completely.
You’re still here between the hardwood cracks, planting splinters in my socks when I drag my feet down the hallway to my bathroom.
You aren’t painful yet. But I’m cautious as to whether I can trust that you won’t dig your splinters deeper into my soles, past the point of infection.
I pray I’ll be smarter this time.
I pray I won’t fall into your gaze again.
I’ll be sure to walk behind you.
I’ll be sure to self-impose an early curfew so I don’t frolic home with you under the hot summer’s 12 a.m. moon.
I won’t let you string romance through my hair.
I’ll be sure this time.
Not to be too easy.
I’ll try not to care as much.
I’ll offer to pay for your meal and mine.
I’ll keep you in the friend zone for 6 months instead of weeks.
I won’t reply to your texts for 4 whole days so you think that I don’t care.
I’ll make you miss me more and wonder if I like you…
I’ll make you contemplate deleting me off of everything.
I’ll make your heart stop dead of relief when you see my text blow in.
And you’ll wait 3 whole hours before replying so you don’t seem desperate.
Cause you can’t let me know that you care.