If I loathed Emilia,
half as much as she
forgave me,
when I thought she
had it out for me,
I’d forgive myself
for the trouble
of letting her down.
I cut my eyes at her.
Emilia swiveled her
gaze at mine.
I swallowed hard.
She exhaled my fears.
I cracked a grin.
Gooseflesh pebbled her arms.
Even in the November chill,
my heart warmed our delight
in the ashes of what I did.
Emilia moved her hair from her eyes.
I lit a death stick, took a puff,
scratched the back of my neck,
took another drag,
and cut my eyes to hers.
Emilia gave me an unbreakable eye contact.
I couldn’t shake what I did.
She crossed her legs
and begged me to accept her forgiveness.
I rested the smoke between my lips.
And I shrugged.
I shrugged as though I’d give in to embracing
the second chance that I didn’t deserve.
I promised, from now on, to shut the toilet seat.
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