The last words I remember still echo in my head at night. She was never one to say a reckless word. I know ’cause I always listened. I saw past layers of her carefully-chosen words, beyond her deafening silences, and I knew.
Sometimes, I would be sitting against her, looking into her eyes while she talks, and I would get that feeling that it is the first time ever I hear someone talk; she would say words as dark as her hair, words that had no meaning to me until her lips met mine and gave them many. And I knew.
The last words you said are always the same, but it’s how I remember it that is different; of all the words that you said and the ones you didn’t, your last words were the ones I couldn’t make sense of. I never knew.
The same words that I so much loved wrecked me in the end. I always knew.