I want you to tell me to stay.
We both know that we’re leaving, eventually, one at a time, and we’re both pissed off about it like teenagers stood up for prom. But we’ll never talk about it like we’ll actually make a move. We will have an awkward drink the night before I go, our elbows resting against each other on the bar. I will tell you we’ll still be close, even though I know there will be another pair of librarian glasses waiting to step in, finally. We both know we won’t be close.
And still I can’t decide if I want to stay or go. You will remember me as the girl in the backless red dress, and I will remember you as a true Peter Pan, the one who just couldn’t see what I needed you to desperately to see. You will never wear the green tights and I will grow up and pretend to move on.
I wish you would just tell me to stay.
