The Smell of Grass

Just over two months after breaking up with you (you breaking up with me), I like to think that I'm over you. I don't text you, don't beg you to call me and tell me why. I know why. I can now chart our downward spiral, can pinpoint the moments where things went wrong. We are okay with each other, I like to think. (We even had a normal conversation a few weeks ago, though the both of us were admittedly a little drunk.)

But I still miss things - your hand in my hair, on my waist. The look in your eyes right before you kissed me. I miss acting like a little kid (this I miss most of all). There was something so perfectly childish in the way I would tackle you, you fighting valiantly to put grass in my hair and mouth. I miss making bets on who'd win UNO, and fighting over a stick, a little piece of tree branch, for over an hour. I came home that day with gravel imprints in my knees, smelling of dirt and rain and you.

My mother asked if I was sleeping with you. I said no without blushing, because I didn't yet think of you in that way. That came later, after I learned the distinct smell of grass tangled with your hair. Sometimes, I still can't separate the two.