If you'd like to propose.

If we got married, I'd like you to hold my hand at business parties. We'd laugh like we've got diamonds lining the tile floor. Our house would flood and you'd splash at my curled hair. It would go flat and you'd take me for snow cones and a movie. I'd sing in the car. You'd swerve the steering wheel like a drunk and the snow cones would fall over. We'd be sticky in the theatre.

I've thought about dying too many times. When your heart stops? What happens to the sighs, to the hair shakers inside my heart when it stops it's rhythmic taunt. I won't let the trickling nostalgia break that quickly. Where would your kisses go, the falling, and the catching, and the soft hello's go. These etchings of my heart have taken years to carve and I am not content with them leaving like.that.

Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe the beatings, and the waitings, and the needings, and the bleedings would leave quicker than the healings and my last thump would catch on a business party hand hold.

Just, Hazel