Kimchi and Wine

I let the fermented cabbage and grapes dance together in my stomach. I set my glass on the mini Native American carpet and think, that could have been our life together -- meaningful coasters on carefully selected side tables. We would have been good at it, too -- your minimalism combined with my initiative.

But you're doing that with someone else now, and I stopped caring about aesthetics.

You never liked my spontaneity. I just annoyed you when I got hyper and wanted to feast on the world. I'd bounce around you on the bed as you tried to concentrate and block me out. Eventually, you'd look into my grin and sigh, and I'd let my head drop.

You read four or five books at the same time and kept several journals, or whatever they were. You never told me your thoughts. You'd much rather write them down, or read someone else's version of them. I'd watch you scribble away, wondering what you were writing, wondering if you'd ever ask me what I thought.

I remember how lonely I was when I was with you. Funny how I feel less lonely now that I'm alone. Except for your hands. I remember your hands.

Why can't I cover my face when I want to? Why is it so hard to stay hidden? You didn't understand why I'd stretch your wide hand over my whole face, but you let me do it. And you let me hold it there as long as I wanted.

That's why I miss you.