I don't know why I told you.
it wasn't even a serious talk.
just coffee, Marlboro smoke,
and that way you always leaned in
like you actually cared
about my dumb stories.
I said,
"my sister—Mary is annoying as fuck—
but I love her more than anything."
you laughed.
asked if she looked like me.
"worse," I said.
"she's prettier."
then I told you about my mom.
how she never yelled.
not even when I shoved
a bottle of cheap wine
in her fridge after final exam.
she just looked at me and said,
"don't drink the sweet one. It's mine."
and I didn't know
why I said all that.
maybe because you were listening
with that quiet kind of attention
that made my words feel
less disposable.
then I said it.
"someday, come to my place.
we can play piano together."
even though I barely touched the keys
and hated playing in front of people.
even though you're the musician, not me.
you nodded.
smiled like maybe you already imagined it too.
and in my head,
I saw you in my living room.
fingers on the piano,
voice floating like it belonged there.
I don't think I loved you yet.
but I wanted you in my space.
that's gotta mean something.