Cupcake Love
I remember when two of your friends touched me on the shoulder. They said you spoke of me often, that you loved me so much. I was surprised to hear them say it, “love” without pause. I remember the look in their eyes; it looked like sorrow, and I couldn’t thank them by name. Somehow the memory is foggy. Lost somewhere in my nights of debauchery.
I remember how you loved me; I saw it in your hands and see it in mine now. It’s cream like the sofa. Vanilla, like the frosting on the cupcake.
When I remember us, I remember the day you brought me a cupcake, and how you sliced it in halves for me while I was sleeping. Dipping frosting on your finger and awaking me with its sweet taste. Laughing and feeding each other cake with no qualms or hesitations. No realization you’d be leaving soon.
I loved that you were proud of me before I ever knew to be. I wish you were here to hold me now. You’d be thrilled I won this award. I’d call it dumb and you’d say I wasn’t. You’d take pictures like a proud parent at a school play. “My writer” you called out to me. It danced off your lips like the snowflakes on my window.
I’m tired of my re-run nights of mistakes, of my safe two-bedroom, single serving of a life. It’s why I reached my hand out toward you. The reaching is the hard part; it’s like getting to the gym. Once I’m there, it’s all Frito pie. And I reached for you. You reached back, telling me you would never let a girl like me go.
