The night you don't remember

I can't stop thinking of your hands, lingering around my waist and drawing wanting patterns...and these shivers echoing through my core. Oh chemical feeling, and this undeniability. And words in my voice said "Just hold me." Who was that?
You say you'll always be trying to kiss me. Just once, if there is nothing there, we will go our separate ways. No, I say. It won't be like that. You say exactly.

How long now? Cemented to your porch, and fear. You lay beside and wrapped yourself around me, I asked, who are you? Because suddenly I do not know. Our conversation is frank and clear, honesty corralled into one tiny night and you're calling me out for never having the courage of honesty before now. We both messed up. And ache, like a hazy blanket over my heart. My chest is a cloud I'm only floating on. This girl I loved, you say. Loved? I reply. I love you, you say. I love you. I messed up. 
You should have married me. I know, you say. I know that now.

Our hands somehow flit in finite spaces and it's this magnetic atomic exchange. I say hold out your hand, marry me. You tell me you don't have a ring, and I slip the rounded rope of a dog leash over your ring finger. Now you can't ever say you've never been married. 

He tells you how lucky you are. This man walking down the road says I'm beautiful and how lucky you are. You say I'm such an idiot. It's abundantly clear. And I never want you to stop touching me. And it's mine, all mine, this memory; it's surreal and it aches, like nostalgia and whiskey and laughter and loyalty. I never knew you loved me. I thought, but I never knew. You should have married me, you idiot. We would be infinitely happy now. We would smile and we would fall, because at last, at last, the emptiness would be gone. And now nothing will ever be the same. So we exist in foggy memories and haphazard meetings and we'll never get away from each other. And something about that will always, always, always. hurt.