whatever words are worth
if you had one day left to live who would you tell from your past that you love them, or that you're sorry.
It's not like I circle days on the calendar, big red hearts or warning signs wrapped around particular games--though sometimes I think I should. It's more like a building pressure, distant at first and then, slowly, growing and growing until it's so sharp I can barely stand it--like an orgasm, like a migraine--and I open my eyes and I remember. I look at the schedule and see the city, I see his name; his name is fucking everywhere, I can't get away. I wonder if I'll go against him that night, or if I'll watch it all from the bench. Watching his side of the ice more than my own, a bad habit for a goalie, hard to break. I wonder if this time he'll meet my eyes.
I don't ever hope for more than that. There would be no point. There's nothing I could say that he doesn't already know. Nothing I haven't said a hundred times before, and most of the time even meant it.
Most of the time.
It's not like I circle days on the calendar, big red hearts or warning signs wrapped around particular games--though sometimes I think I should. It's more like a building pressure, distant at first and then, slowly, growing and growing until it's so sharp I can barely stand it--like an orgasm, like a migraine--and I open my eyes and I remember. I look at the schedule and see the city, I see his name; his name is fucking everywhere, I can't get away. I wonder if I'll go against him that night, or if I'll watch it all from the bench. Watching his side of the ice more than my own, a bad habit for a goalie, hard to break. I wonder if this time he'll meet my eyes.
I don't ever hope for more than that. There would be no point. There's nothing I could say that he doesn't already know. Nothing I haven't said a hundred times before, and most of the time even meant it.
Most of the time.