Words by Karen Claire Ferrao
I knew from the start that you would leave me. That you would return home to them. That you would leave your lonely American life behind and start a new one where your life started. Still, part of me wished, hoped, fooled myself into thinking that you would stay for me. Stay with me. Love me like I wanted to be loved.
Even as I watched you walk out the door the last time I saw you, part of me listened to your footsteps – every pause made me think you’d come back to me and we’d spend another night making love. Every fading click of your heel proved otherwise. I knew from the start that you were never mine; could never be mine. Even as I held you in my arms, I knew that you’d slip away as quickly and easily as you came. Even then, when you’d firmly but gently hold my hand, and look at me with your eyes full of love, I couldn’t help but think: Maybe, just maybe, you did love me.
You didn’t just need me to make you feel less alone during your lonely nights. That you held me like that because you didn’t want to let me go. That you wanted to be mine. Even so… Even so… You were gone.