that afternoon on the swings, i reached for your hand and missed as you passed by me with your legs out-stretched and my hair stuck to my lips.
i tried to kick high enough to poke a hole in the damp, gray sky. we could have crawled inside and snuggled up against our own loneliness.
but i suppose then i would have missed what came next: you played the piano for me for the first time in the basement. i learned your eyes are green, not blue. i decided i wanted to hear your simple repetitive chords that sounded like wind chimes and heart patters every single day for the rest of my life.
i am writing you this love letter because i enjoy remembering how it all started instead of our eventual fated end. our hands missed for a reason, but that doesn't mean i regret our fingertips brushing.
love,
a.
you'll be the vein
you'll be the pain
you'll be the catalyst
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