i had always been told that i was wrong.
it was not something that had devastated me, rather just a fact of life: group meetings, debates, an answer or several on a quiz or exam – i was wrong. even my feelings, i believed, were wrong: crying was wrong, short bursts of ecstasy were wrong. when i had seen you confidently strut into the conference room, your clear voice, your bright smiling eyes, and the grace with which you carried yourself, i was wrong to feel the wild palpitations of my heart and the wringing of my hands, my squinting of eyes as they studied the dimple on your cheek. feeling this way, it’s wrong.
you were too perfect, too ethereal. fire amidst the snow, a moment of solitude along the train tracks amidst the bustle of the city, the only right-ness in the wrong-ness. if only natural chemical and physical reactions could be controlled, i would have corrected myself long ago.
you would never love me. it was merely an illusion to see myself reflected in your eyes. a mistake to hear my name slip from your lips. a mistake when i thought your touch lingered for but a second on my hand. a mistake, a wrong, that you replied to my awkward smile with your own awkward smile. a mistake. a wrong.
you weren’t in love with me.
but last night, at that certain party i was sure i was wrong i attended, you took me aside and with a blushing face told me you liked me. told me of the palpitations of your heart and the wringing of your hands. of squinting your eyes to study the curl of my lashes (“you have beautiful eyes” i think you told me, but i’m probably wrong). of longing to see yourself reflected in my eyes,
the way i am now, you said with a smile playing on your lips. a kind of fondness in your eyes.
are you drunk, i asked, and you responded by kissing me, forcefully and awkwardly.
you didn’t smell of alcohol.
i was wrong, once again.