oreo cheesecake

I used to write you cards with little hearts and stick men.

I'd draw cards with hearts and clouds and a picture of us.

I would seal it up and slip it under your door saying 'I Love You."

My small hands used to grip yours as I said "I Love You."

My first moment of consciousness I remember believing that I'd always love you.

Now I'm older I find myself fumbling over those three little words.

I stutter when I use it.

I drop the "I", thinking 'love ya' is easier to say.

Because now that I'm older I don't know how to say "I love you."

I miss the days when it was simple.

I miss the days of childhood innocence.

I miss believing in love.

How do I say I love you now I'm older?

Little pictures just won't do.

I'm too old to hold your hand or sit on your lap.

How do I say I love you?

I wish I could go back in time.

Back to the old days sitting on the speckled green countertops.

The kitchen window open; crushing Oreo's for a cheesecake crust.

In that moment of childhood consciousness, I knew it was never going to be easier than it was in that moment.

I knew with white floral bowl in your hands; you stirring the mixture; dancing to some heart broken love sick bachata balled that life was not always going to be this way.

With my legs too far from the ground to reach the floor, my mind far from fully conscious. I remembered feeling strangely sad.

Because the moment was fleeting.

This perfection was temporary.

When you dipped your finger in the batter and dolloped it on my nose saying "I love you."

I knew I'd always keep that memory close.

We never made Oreo cheesecake again.

Rightly so.

And after that day I clung to childhood innocence.

Hanging on by a thread.

Waiting for the day the thread snapped, telling me my time was up.

Childhood was over.

The thread snapped its frayed edges I held close to, perhaps that's the reason I still don't know how to say, "I love you."