11.

i. I worried that we might run out of things to say, so I wrote the beginning of sentences on the palm of my hand so that I might see them when I reached for my coffee. They rubbed off against your hand, and I didn't notice until the end of the night.

ii. I wrote poems about you before and during, I'm not sure what will happen after, or if either of us will even notice when the after begins.

iii. It was as if your words and my words were strings that kept getting tangled in the air between us. We spent hours pulling them apart and could slip away once we were both free. Something made us do it again the next week.

iv. They say that when it hurts, it hurts because it mattered. What they neglect to tell you is that it doesn't need to hurt to matter.