I should have told you that you were the prologue to my sequel. But my hands slipped right off the pages.

There was a whole library, and I chose the prettiest cover—until another look revealed the fraying and decay hidden beneath fictional happiness.

I should have told you that you were the split second between the adjacent crosswalk flashing “go” and the green flicker of our light. But we were already on yellow, unable to make the turn before red flashed—leaving us frozen in time. The books topple from the shelves, and the red dissolves into black.

I wish I had been the one crushed beneath the weight of the hardbacks, the one jolted by the electrocution on the white lines. And yet, you still believe you are only the panic set in motion after the clatter (when, in truth, you are the efflorescent love in a romance novel) or the blaring horns (when really, you are the mellifluous hum of the engine).

So now, I am left with cliché motivation resting beneath my tongue and the aching whim that you will go on lodged in my throat… 😔

©️Beatriz Esmer