Everything Was So Sweet Until You Tried To Kill Me

I often daydream about all the things we did that were so sweet they practically gave me a toothache; cheek kisses, sing-a-long car rides, laying beside you in bed all night. 

Impromptu basketball games and spontaneous morning workouts because we agreed to keep on motivating each other even when we weren't motivated ourselves. 

We'd spend days on end with one another only to have to be taken away kicking and screaming because we couldn't bare to part. 

Your family adored me so much that they took my side when we would argue. 

Your sisters were the older sisters I never had, but always wanted. 

Your mother talked about our wedding every time she saw us. 

The most distinct memory I have of is when you walked away in the middle of my sentence to go talk to her. 

And I knew. 

Seeing the way you looked at her and the launguage your body screamed out when she would come around. 

I knew she had you. 

We were two halves of a whole. 

But while your heart was filling with infatuation, mine was shattering all over the kitchen floor we'd danced on while making dinner that one cool July night. 

The arguments got copious, longer. 

Days without speaking. 

Phrases such as, "it's not like that" "believe what you want to believe" and "she's just a friend" blockaded my airway and constricted around my neck. 

I loved you until I was blue in the face and my brain was so deprived of blood and oxygen that it was a desert. 

Then, on my deathbed, you came to see me while you were holding her hand, and the last sight I could see was your lips against hers while mine, ultramarine and chapped, mouthed the words "I will always love you" as I tasted my very last breath.