Mug of Rosé

She had a mug of rosé in her hand and that’s all. There were hours on either side, and especially after, that meant she wouldn’t be thinking good things, and her stomach would catch on fire. She never drank with me, I wonder why. She wouldn’t date me for awhile either, I wonder why.

There was a beautiful way to look at her if you closed one of your eyes and let the other two fight over what you saw. There was never a consensus that way so the want just went on. The ugly things came up when she wasn’t watching and they looked like carelessness. She clouded those ugly hours with chores she gave herself. It was listed and planned when she was supposed to give herself a minute to breath, but she often ran out of time for things like that. Somewhere in that lost book I wish she’d written: make the love of my life feel like it, but she didn’t.

When he said he didn’t want to be romantic with her, and she said she understood, and that she knew their future was in the future, did it all mean that she would stop trying? Would she let the ocean at her fingertips rise to her chest and swallow her and deliver her to the place she could grow to an old nothing in? Shouldn’t it cause her to kick harder? Why didn’t it cause her to kick harder? She’s treading, and sinking, into that mug of rosé .

She seemed less beautiful. Because she wouldn’t try. Because she cared so much; but somehow never let herself know.

My mom said that if it mattered in the part of her heart that she lives with, leaving her would have made her turn the world to fire to be with you, to heal herself. She just sustains; keeps from drowning; losing me in that mug of rosé .


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