The majority of our time together was spent listening to records in his dad’s library, the sound bounced beautifully off the hardwood floors. We’d pick out a long one and the tingy twang from the records followed us into his bedroom where we’d spoon in his twin bed and flicker through channels. We wouldn’t say a thing. I’d prop myself on my elbow and look down at him and he’d look up at me and we would simply search each other’s eyes, seeing the detail of our intricate irises.
He’d pick me up Fridays, the day we both shared away from our little worlds. I’d have a playlist and he’d have a new place for us to go. Since we didn’t feel the need to speak on these long car rides, I’d begun to make elaborate mixed tapes filled with folk and love songs so he’d know I cared. I knew he knew, but I just wanted to drive the point home.
We were so simple together. We were constantly listening to one another. I heard his smirks and his cowboy stride. Maybe he heard my heart flutters and wide-eyed admiration.
We’re not together anymore, but I think of him. And some nights he sneaks into my dreams as first loves are wont to do. It’s then I feel his thoughts on me, or at least, I hope they are, sometimes.