I knew he liked me because of the pictures he took of me when I didn’t know I was being photographed. When he watched me when he knew I wasn’t aware of him. I knew he liked me because of the way he behaved when he thought I wasn’t looking. When he kept his hands, his pennies, and his thoughts to himself. I knew he liked me every time he said he’d live in the moment. When he wondered what a future without him would look like for me. I knew he liked me when he couldn’t fall asleep. When he lied in the morning telling everyone that the evening heat had turned his eyes into dark circles. I knew he liked me every time we found ourselves in shopping centers. When the crowd made us walk in circles and get lost on purpose. I knew he liked me every time he woke me up when I was distracted, because he knew I was distracted. When his favorite football team lost an important match and he was too angry to talk about it. I knew he liked me when he started wondering what I looked like when I got angry. Do I yell? Do I cry? Do I remain silent? I write bad poems, I told him that night. I knew he liked me when I told him that as long as his clock kept beating, I’d take the long way home, and he said nothing. When truth was not enough to convince him, and love was nothing compared to distance. I knew he liked me by the way his friends welcomed me into the room. When he made plans instead of promises. I knew he liked me the moment he started to pinch the skin on my arm in public. When suddenly, I wasn’t there every morning, and he tried to explain why it was better that way. I knew he liked me when, in my absence, he searched for the dark side of the moon in the sky, that side so far and invisible to him, he couldn’t believe was real.
Share This Post