Seven hundred and sixty two.

I still remember the day when the late night texts paved way for that first phone call. 

I don't have to go back in time to recollect my skyrocketing anxiety, the sweaty palms and the pacing mess. 

Amused looks shot my way as I traded surefootedness for jittery steps. 

Down the hallway and past the dining hall and back again. 

Perspiring despite the cold of the night, thoughts out of control. 

Anticipation conquering the calm of my brain

It wasn’t something I could fail at could I? 

Talking to you with my voice was supposed to be the same as typing out the words on a screen, except now I didn’t have to imagine your voice in my head. 

The shapes your lips would mould into with the words, a far-fetched fantasy for another time. 

It was supposed to be the same conversation but with signals we couldn’t see, yet why did it feel like taking a Physics exam to me?

I don’t clearly remember if it was you who called me or if it was I who gathered that courage, but I remember the first awkward silence after a shy ‘hi’.

The husky voice and a lilt like warm blankets that flooded through my earphones, the voice I’d tried to imagine all along.

Memories of our first date and the awkward handshakes,

In the hallways of school. 

Of when I had to crane my neck to get a glimpse of your smile, wondering if I was violating your privacy by focusing too much on the softness of your hand.

The voice that had called out to me on that Saturday. The first time we held hands.

The time when people stared but we were moving too far away to care.

I still remember the old lady who’d sat next to me. The difference in height, changing the way our fingers interlaced.

The last time we saw each other in the rain, sheltered under waiting for it to stop. 

When we stood apart with too many words that had been left unsaid.

Of the tears and the pain, not knowing when I’d see you next. 

Befuddled by how I missed you already with the future unknown though you’d just left my doorstep.

I wanted to run back. I always do after every time I see you.

For another last hug, a final touch. To brush my fingers against your cheek. Smoothe down your hair.

That first phone call. 

The smile in your voice stirring up memories, bittersweet.

Scrawling down poems with every heartbeat.

copyright©️2020 Mnemoyne

(A/N: I don’t write romance. *writes cheesy shit* My blog is going to be about death and blood and gore. And pregnant women in misery because that’s terrifying. *proceeds to post more cheesy shit*.)

Photo by Raphael Brasileiro from Pexels
(762 days and 7.5 hours approximately. I'm late)