words i could never say

i never told my first love that i loved him. i didn't tell him a lot of things, but mostly that. i didn't tell him when he ran to me, put his hands on my waist, kissed me in that yellowed kitchen light, glowing bright against the swallowing of the night. i didn't trace it onto his arm, like i wanted to once in the darkness. the thought crossed my mind, but scrambled away as if to say that it was as scared as i was, as scared as he was, maybe our fear was tangible, i remember it that way. i remember the glow of the dark television screen, i remember the music of the closing credits, i still remember that song, how it felt as it ended, my hand in his, the only sound now our breath almost touching. i didn't tell him when he held my hands on the coldest winter days. we walked through town slowly under streetlights in the dull grey darkness of late afternoon and silent snowflakes. i didn't tell him that i loved him, or that no one could keep my hands as warm as him. i didn't tell him i loved him one night, late, while we sat in his truck, my head rested quietly in his lap. we didn't kiss. instead, i gave him my favorite color: purple. my deepest worry: my brother. my favorite place: and i didn't tell him this either, but it was right there. i didn't tell him that maybe i loved him the first time we kissed, smelly breath and introductions, he tasted nervous, me, awkward and sweet, together, we were eager, excited, like this could be the adventure we had both been hoping for, like this was the start, the beginning, we couldn't see the horizon yet, we couldn't see the ending yet, and maybe there wasn't one. i didn't tell him i loved him in 7th grade when "i love you" meant sharing pencils and maybe - if you're lucky - a smile across the classroom, but at that time, he was smiling at someone else, lending her his special collection of mechanical pencils, so like at so many other doors, i kept my mouth shut, the sound like a latch clicking. he is thousands of miles away now, oceans separate us, once we were so close i could hear his heartbeat in my ear, i still remember the sound. it matches his favorite song, my favorite memory of him trying to sing along. i imagine him waking up now, as i am just turning out the lights for bed, this distance puts me miles away and hours ahead, spreading us just out of reach. he rolls out of messy blankets, rubs his eyes, feels for the glasses on the table. he can see clearly now, and i wonder if he ever remembers the way i looked, always struggling for the right words.