I bit my tongue before
the words slipped through
my lips.
I sharpened my overacting skills to fine points,
holding onto a thread of what was left
of hope by the skin of my teeth.
My mistakes unraveled last autumn.
Sara forgave me.
We fought
She came over.
Admitting my sins cracked the clay in the canyon of my pride.
In the stillness of the dark evening, three words
scream me down in a shouting match.
I’ll hear it.
But she won’t believe it.
It echoed in the back of my head.
I heard: “I hate you.”
Sara’s forehead puckered, and she crinkled her eyes. “Those were the words you thought I’d wanted to say?”
“What then?” I shrugged.
“Let’s get married.”
“Those were the three—”
“Will you or won’t you?”
“We’re a romantic disaster.” I grinned.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sara said, pressing her soft lips to mine.

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