young lovers with their legs tied up in knots

there's not a lot i wouldn't do. watch her tiptoe through the hallways, rustling fabrics and knocking against woodwork while hiding candy-coloured easter eggs. rest my elbows on the counter while i lean against the bar and watch her move and twirl with her friends, faces dewy and hair stuck with sweat. i know there was this one time she told jella that she didn't want to go to prince edward island with me. said if she wanted to sit in a wood-paneled shit hole she could visit her parents. there's not a lot i wouldn't have done with her. prince edward island was supposed to be a place for us transplant our roots, to push into the red soil and be those functional young adults we always knew we had to turn into. it was my plan, it was mine. she didn't have to agree, she didn't have to echo my soft ambition. lying between cool sheets in the dark, planning out our lives in whispers. now my mental road map, a highlighted migration east, seems too spacious for one. visions of myself, conversation-starved and manic, falling out the window of my pick-up truck, or driving in a sleep-deprived trance and slamming into the fiery eyes of deer. she didn't have to agree to me. i think i'll move north instead.