Remember when you took me to the river?

It was cold, so cold that the wind broke through our coats and our boots and the water was blue and melted into the sky and everything was sharp, every thing was clear and there wasn't anything between us. And you had a navy coat that accentuated the blue hues of your grey eyes so brilliantly they looked like melted silver and then you pulled out your gloves and took my sweaty hands in yours and lead me through reeds and I slipped, remember? I slipped and grabbed onto your hand and my long nails slightly scratched your wrists and you winced and your cheeks were so rosy, but yet when I looked up again you were smiling...smiling? Yes, smiling as you told me "If you would just accept you're gay and cut these nails this wouldn't have happened, you know" and it wasn't because I didn't want to accept it I really didn't want to accept it you were right  it was because I needed those nails. I needed them to strum guitar chords and small snatches of melodies I wrote to you because I couldn't find a way to warm your frigid glance, and all the while asking myself how your body could be so warm but your eyes so cold even as they looked at me from down bellow.

And that's the thing that shook me the most, when you talked to me that other day. You were warm. You didn't look at me like something distant in the horizon like the boats we saw that day. I cut my nails for you, I lived up to all the strange mannerisms and likes you had for you to look at me the way you looked at me those five minutes. And I wanted to hate you just like I wanted to hate you the Saturday before but I couldn't, I never will, because I know you want to drive people away, because I know that that's your way of coping and protecting yourself, because I could never hate you. Because there's a small corner of my heart that knows how to read your cold quirks and the way you scrunch up your eyebrows and there's three types of ways you do that, do you know that? I learned how to read you because you couldn't express yourself not even to your own self. I don't blame you for anything. And I don't regret anything. And I don't know if I miss you, even as I read this text on my cell phone asking me how my day went. I don't know what to do, and this is my fault for screwing up our friendship, because you helped me for those few months in a way people I've known for years hasn't helped me and dear god I don't have time for these things anymore but talking to you would unravel me in a way that's not convenient for me at all right now, I've got shit to do, I have people to take care of, I have a life that I can't lose sight of despite how much I still l