I stood, hands folded in front of my body, in front of Hannah’s grave. The words I love you escaped under a thought, not a feeling, but my lips remain sealed. I lowered my head and slammed my eyes shut as if to pray.
And I spoke as if she were God and could read my thoughts.
The checkmarks on Hannah’s bedposts chalk another notch under her belt of cheapshots.
The golden-brown leaves in her hair flickered under street lights.
Even in death, Hannah gambles with my heart until her eyes touch mine in a deep sleep, fluttering until my eyes slam open and like a vapor, she disappears in the wind as if her skin weren’t cold to the touch, and her eyes didn’t close as if she hadn’t died from cancer last fall.
I dream of her, but the thoughts escape my memories, and the words bring both a chill and a sarcastic grin. The taste of Hannah’s breath lingers on my tongue—even today—even in death. I kneel, dropping a red rose on her grave; the words escape my lips from under a thought, not a feeling.