We sat, facing each other, on the almost dangerously worn roof of my apartment building. We had been staring out the window when you asked “Do you ever go out on that part of the roof.” Actually, come to think of it, you didn’t ask. You never asked for anything. You and your dark hair, sharp thick eyebrows. The consistent 5 o’clock shadow that you maintained with a casual elegance, which I knew was a product of a pair of clippers your mother had gotten you on your 22nd birthday.
You asked me if I was cold. I lied and told you I wasn’t. I wasn’t really. The Black Keys blared from the speakers we had strategically placed in my windows. I couldn’t help but sway back and forth. You kept telling me about an astronomy class you had taken and how two guys in the class always showed up high. They would stare and point up at the sky, never getting any of the technical terms right.
You told me how you wished you had a girl to wrap up in a blanket in a field and share the constellations with. A girl just for you. One that didn’t take away too much of your soul, mostly because you didn’t have a lot of it to give.
I knew that I wasn’t the girl for you, and that you had more soul than most of the men I had ever met. You were in a stage of fucking for aesthetics. You know, where you went for the women that looked good on your arm, but at the end of the night you were giving and receiving empty promises in a beautiful shell. Pleasures were foreign. Mostly because you didn’t think you deserved them.
I knew you needed time to muck through a lot of self deprivation before you realized what you deserved, and where it was. But, I knew that it wasn’t me, and never would be. No matter how close you held me, or the words you tried to say.