Remember when you said

we’re not going to make it? I spent all night reminding you to wake up in the morning. You hadn’t slept that poorly since our hotel flooded. I have been meaning to apologize. The way a person can never relax because there may be someone just outside the window, tapping the moment you look away. This is what I have done to you. You have boarded all the windows. I meant for you to love me more than this. I meant to trim the weeping willow branches that reach toward our bedroom. The way a person can never be intimate because the other may become too violent, squeezing too tightly and biting down too hard. This is what I have done to you. I meant to touch you softly on the arm the first time we were nervous together. I meant to tell you I loved you earlier than you would have felt the same. I meant to not do this. I meant to let you sleep, only placing my lips on your face when I knew you were too deeply asleep to notice.