The Hesitation


Just once I’d like to pick up the phone and text away

With an eagerness unshadowed by doubt; self or otherwise.

Here, I hesitate.

It has been three hours.

That unsaved number hasn’t said the Hi you floated in her direction.

Your square-shaped progeny of 500 dollars hasn’t blinked to give a fuck.

But you do.

You clearly give more fucks than your cheating ex gave blowjobs.

And yet, you don’t want those fucks catching up with that Hi.

So, you hesitate.

She’s known men and men have known her.

Some have known the exact angle of the curve under her left breast.

Some have known the shade of light that torches her eyes when she hears the name of her favourite Blues band at an EDM-loving house party.

And a few have known her favourite nightmares.

They have all passed by

Passed by the way shades of ascending pink leaves in autumn pass by before the red ones arrive.

You might be her red one.

The crimson cringe kind.

The kinda red that goes with sharp edges of a knife and hot chocolate in the same secret corner.

She wants to stare at the red. Unabashedly.

Leeringly, even.

And then she remembers the pink leaves.

The ones that passed by without smelling her perfume or saying hello to her dog.

Too late. She hesitated.

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