Crooked Smile, Thick Accent

Was it my crooked smile, or your thick accent that gave it away? It might have been something else entirely. Your hands, my hair. It doesn't really matter now, what suddenly hit us like a gold brick inscribed with a song. "And maybe, we were made, we were made for each other. Is it possible, for the world to look this way forever?"

        Maybe it was because the accent was fake, a joke to make me laugh. Or that the smile was to seem coy and flirtatious, only to impress you. While inside, I had been screaming to run far away where I couldn't screw this one up. Maybe you saw that in the smile. And maybe I heard it in the accent, who knows. it was too long ago. Though "long" itself translates into something else entirely when every day starts out with the dread that this day will be the last. That you'll have realized that it was for nothing, and you don't really like my smile all that much anyway.

        And then you'll be gone.

        I hate knowing that this day is inevitable, that it's creeping quietly up like a disease, waiting to infect and kill. An incurable disease, one that can't be avoided like lung cancer. Don't smoke, kids. Don't do drugs. Don't fall in love.