Duele

He sits across the table, head down as he chews his steak. A sadness comes over me. A perfect out of place curl divides his forehead. I reach over and cautiously stroke it out of his perfect face. He looks up with his perfect green eyes and smiles. He continues to eat. The silence is maddening. I can't eat. The thought of this moment being one of the few I have to share with him numbs my appetite. He confirms three times that we have only a few weeks. Each time it's harder to swallow. He invites me over, but the sadness by now has consumed me and I decline.

He confessed hours earlier that there was a possibility of him staying, and in that moment some unknown force gave my heart a shove in his direction. But that chance, so slim. I take two steps back. I'm still closer than I was before the shove, but I'm safe now.

"You're affectionate in private," he says "but not in public." How much more of me should I give before its left out in the cold like a handshake never accepted, or a telegraph never received...

I'll give him the 21 days, 1 hour and 25 minutes he has left, but as much as I would like to give him everything, that won't be possible. What's he thinking, my curly haired green eyed foe? I know what I'm thinking, I know what I am to expect, and I know what I wasn't ready for. I wasn't ready to fall again. Haci es la vida. Duele.