Before I Even Met You

He built me a house out of willow bones. I didn't know how to thank him, so instead of smiling I said "We speak with different hopes," I pretended like his laugh could make me smile, make me forget the ridges in his palms were like severed river beds.

"Of course we do."

"I'm serious."

"You're never serious."

"Only about you."

"You joke too much"

"Maybe."

His embrace was erratically cold. Irony didn't begin to describe it. I guess you loose warmth with age. Or maybe it's with lies. I may never know.

"Grand tour?"

"Sure."

Winter curled up inside his eyes as we stood with our toes pressing against the first steps of the run-down church.

"We don't have to go inside."

"Why not?"

"I could describe it to you."

"Grand tour, remember?"

"Oh. Right."

A hollow wind began grappling at his lips while we climbed the short flight of stairs. He spoke but I couldn't make out the words, I was feeling dreadful for even thinking of returning here, again.

"Stop feeling bad. I like coming back here."

I fidgeted next to him, not from being uncomfortable, but from being angry. He should understand.

"Right."

"I do."

"Okay."

Silence fell upon us like snow in the winter. There was nothing to say, and we both knew it. We approached big doors and he opened them movie style to a room filled with dusty seats under resplendent stained-glass windows. You'd never guess how evil this innocent place could be.

My words became mechanical as we clumsily shuffled along lines of half-said prayers, "Do you remember the day this happened?" He stroked the carvings in the floor with his foot.

"A little."

"Really?"

"It was the day I met you."

"No it wasn't."

"Fine," he paused, "The first day I saw you."

"Don't be weird."

"I can't help it."

For once, it didn't matter that we were surrounded by dilapidated dreams, that smile could have brought back the sun from death.

"Alright."

"Alright what?"

"Alright, you can't help being creepy."

"See, I win."

"Nope."

I can't describe my emotions to him. He sees me, but he never truly sees the meaning of what his eyes have to adjust to each day. I'm thinner than thin, paler than pale, eyes as vacant as summer skies, as quiet as a mouse that would adorn the pews of the building in which we stand. He would never say that himself. Not because of denial, but because he simply doesn't know.

"Come here."

"What?"

"Just come."

"Okay, now what?"

"Touch this."

"Feels dirty. And old."

"It is," he catches the uncomfortable spaces between my syllables and switches his glances to the end of the room.

Fingers dart like fish across the wooden surface of the pew, leaving me a trail to follow. I mimic his movements because I could follow him forever, even when I don't want to.  He doesn't say anything as he wanders towards the door near the back of the room. It's bent over, the weight of forgotten hearts and gravity wearing away at it. The hinges protested as they awakened from their scorched grave but he manages to move the door without damaging it more.

"Don't come any closer," He whispers, as if someone else would hear. As if the walls themselves would just shed their mistakes and sorrow onto us in a rumble of debris.

"Why?"

"Trust me."

"What if I say no?"

"You won't."

"You're right."

He slipped inside the tattered door, and I heard something fall, and something else chime. When he called me in, I leaned down to that old rotted and carved up pew. I kissed it lightly.

Behind the door was a world unknown. There it was, standing between a raven and a writing desk. Literally. There was a beautiful painting of a raven hung on the wall, and a writing desk against another. He smiled and reached out to me.

"This," he said, "is the office room of the church."

"I see."

"And this is where the reverend comes to write his speeches."

"Do you remember any of them?"

"Not particularly, I was too busy smiling at you."

"Creepy," I reach out to touch him, but fall short because he's already walking around the room, footprints left in paper and ash.

Instead I watch him plot out a map made of my forgotten memories and his pretend recollections. We remain in this office room, two puppets waiting for a scene change.

"Did I ever break your heart?"

"What?"

He looks at me sternly, autumn eyes and all, and I rephrase: "Have I ever broken your heart?"

"Yes."

"Me too."