Ice-Cream at Midnight

And the next thing I know, you’re seeing me without make-up;

completely exposed, mind you, and you don’t even know

that my mask of powder is not on until I say so

and then you’re falling asleep,

face illuminated by the light of your TV and

you’re asking if you can say something

without it being weird

and I’m saying yes,

and you called me:

cute.

Like a little sister.

And I’m not playing that memory on repeat,

I’m not having your voice play in my head like a broken record.

Rather,

I am mourning

the way we were

the beautiful thing we had

if only for a month

before it was torn away

by time

by distance

by guilt.

I am mourning the melted

mint chocolate chip.

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