You made the lines clear when you asked

if I was sleeping with other people

after we had just slept together.

For some reason I didn’t answer.

That night you came from your brothers boxing match

to get drunk with me and the British backpackers

and we ended up in the gutter,

you in my lap,

your face in my palm,

you had worked eight hours that day

and still found time to waste on me.

I tried to tell you I loved you.

For some reason I didn’t.

The night when the façade broke,

it was after a bottle of scotch at a house party we weren’t invited to.

I crawled into your lap in the middle of the kitchen,

and told you I thought I was falling in love with you,

you said you didn’t have to think

that you already knew,

and kissed me.

Back then, you would kiss me like a question

and I would answer with my tongue.

Now you kiss me like the answer,

and I don’t even have to ask the question.