you find her under the lamppost one street away from both your houses.

this is not the first time you have ran here, and this is not the first time you have let your heart run with what here could entail

you find her under the same lamppost that has seen you pull her onto your lap when the curb was too wet for her to sit on, the lamppost that has seen the way your hands clench by your sides to save yourself from trying to hold her again, the same lamppost that shines enough light to reflect the night sky in the depths of her eyes.

she hadn’t answered your calls. but you had a feeling. you had a gut feeling that has never been misinformed and it steers you here. to now. to her bent head, stinging cheeks, raised voices from the house one street away.

in your dreams she understands the language of your intention. she listens to the hitch in your breath and the shouts fade the frown off her face.

in your dreams you are a presence enough to counter the weight on her shoulders.

you scuff your shoe and she jerks her head up. and you think that maybe her cheek would fit the palm of your hand perfectly.

there is silence. aside from raised voices from the house one street away.

“fuck off,” she says into it, disrupting it, warping it. dashing aside the potential for a language of intention.

if you didn’t know her as well as you know her, you would think that maybe she is fine alone. if you didn’t know how “fuck off” sounds when it is pushed through a smile she fights, then maybe you would have left her alone.

you know her better than you know yourself.

you know her well enough to sit next to her on the curb under the lamppost and nudge her shoulder. your subtle and unending desperation.

she will not let you comfort her.

you fumble for something profound to say. an explanation for the tether you feel towards her, a reason you are here close to midnight, under the lamppost that you are quickly thinking of as yours and as hers and clutching a jacket in the fist that wants to reach out and wipe the tears.

“hello,” is all your parted lips whisper. and she snorts, wet from her tears and bright with the smile she forces.

“how did you know i’d be out here?”

you didn’t. you heard raised voices from the house one street away and started walking.

“i had a feeling,” you say and you drape the jacket over her shoulders, finding yourself wishing for rain so that she, your wet-concrete-hater, can get closer to you. your arms would be warmer around her, warmer than a jacket dripping with your desperation.

you’ve almost kissed her under this lamppost. ninety nine times.

(reckless.reckless.reckless-)

she deserves consideration, and care, and intuition that you’re trying to develop, so that when you touch her it’s less fleeting. and for once you can linger.

she deserves a strength you cannot offer her. a strength you have no right to claim, a strength you are trying to find in yourself. amidst raised voices.

she doesn’t care for how achingly you yearn to be deserving of her.

under the lamppost one street away from both your houses, she reaches out quietly and tugs your fist into her lap.

you breathe out. slowly. watch the light play along your knuckles as she entwines your fingers. ninety nine times you have almost kissed her.

under the lamppost one street away from both your houses, marks a hundred.