day after nuclear war of consumer love.
yesterday, i refused to cry. i stopped myself, and i thought, "my bean." i refused to give in to the red balloons and candy hearts. because we weren't about that. we never bought our love, and we couldn't have afforded it anyway. bean, i looked up at the sky, and i remembered that very first kiss in the middle of february, five in the morning, voices tired. i remembered how scared i was that you didn't like me back or that i would say something ridiculous. i still have three of those roses you gave me, tied with the same blue ribbon.
explorer and i walked around the block over and over again, late into the night last night ... both of us wondering how to miss you. we took our steps with a slowness that only thoughts of you could give us. we paused to caress and talk to a neighborhood cat. and when the tears started, i kept them back. i knew what you'd want me to do.
explorer and i looked at each other and headed home where we assembled a half-new group of friends for drunk pictionary and knowledge that valentine's day has nothing to do with red and pink and everything to do with us. all of us stayed until the whiskey and wine were gone, and eyelids were weighted down with the strength of ten thousand.
how i miss you. how strange love feels now. how empty my bed felt yesterday morning without your hands on mine. how i miss you.
and today. and today, while so many have wilting flowers and tacky bears and stale candy, i got to smile. everyday was our valentine's day, and nobody could tell us how to love.
