Jill Bautista

I keep trying to recall how we got here. I’m trying to connect the dots from the first time we met to the time we found ourselves sitting together late at night, talking about the most random things.

Here we are again, sitting on our bed away from each other. It’s late, yet we’re wide awake, fresh from another fight that started from something I thought wouldn’t be a big deal.

You walk me to the train station. Nobody says anything. The silence is deafening.

What keeps you up all night? And what wakes you up gasping for air in the wee hours? What makes you want to just sleep and leave your reality for even just a little bit? 

For the first time, I went home at the end of the day, not in the slightest bit bothered whether I said too much or whether I showed too much of my vulnerability, because there wasn’t an ounce of judgment. For the first time, I said what I really meant to say, not what I thought you’d want to hear. 

I called in sick that day.

I don’t want you to be my poetry. I don’t want all the beautiful phrases I can possibly compose to be about you.

You see me in all my flaws, yet you’re still in. You don’t put me on a pedestal, but you put me in place.