Remember when we’d stay up until 3am, talking about how

lucky we were?

The way we told each other everything, bared our

souls, confessed our infatuation?

Repeating “I love you” because we couldn’t

believe we belonged to each other.

Yeah, me either.

I remember the daily arguments that lasted for

hours, always fighting about something and

nothing.

The fights about how little you trusted

me, how you couldn’t until we were married. And maybe

not even then.

How you didn’t want me talking to whatever friends

I had left, because they were guys and I was going to

cheat on you.

I wasn’t.

Because I belonged to you.

I remember the pleads that came

from both of us, because I desperately wanted to leave

while you desperately wanted me to stay.

In the end, you left and I wanted you to stay.

When you did something you always accused

me of, and expected me to dismiss it as

quickly as you did. I couldn’t.

I still haven’t.

Because you were infatuated with my being.

I remember the awful months I was

alone, even with you by my side.

The slow alienation, the ignorance and, sometimes,

convenience of my presence.

Because I was that lucky.

Because “I love you” was always the reminder that

it had been worth it. It wasn’t.