For the record, she said it first. She said it late, and it was everything I needed if I was a field in drought and the storm brought only lighting and no rain: swollen clouds bursting to beams of white fire striking from the sky. But it wasn’t so dramatic, no flash, in the dark. It was quiet and accidental, the sound of her shutting the door a little too loudly, and leaving it unlatched so it swings back open at each gust of thought.
She’s the one who says forever, and notices when I can’t say it back, because she says friends first and I’m not past the passion with which she grabbed my face and pulled me close before the real rainstorm. I choke next to her not under her now, my cherry guts seeping out sitting spilt on the cement, a slow sunny burn without the telltale smoke but all the evidence of just how much she really means to me.