The ladies cackle and suspect and drop household names in conversation as though they know them well. But, they know nothing about the people behind these names. I disengage in the gossip, distracted with my own preoccupations. Some tweet which leads to some photo on some webpage… and in my mouth is the first taste of something else. In the background sits a sofa. And I feel rather foolish as, honestly I care less for the subject than I do for the sofa on which my mind will rest itself for a moment, alight, and take me on a pilgrimage to the past. Another lingering moment later, and I’ll admit that I still cherish the eyes that captured it and let a sigh escape me, unaware of myself. I was the apple of those eyes. Warm, intense brown eyes that searched the inviting room behind open windows. Eyes that would see what I still cannot.
And sometimes my memory serves me that sweet injustice of calling you back… of bringing me back… bringing us back. I wonder if you remember my arms, languid with wine and draped upon the invisible shoulders of the night. Without a word, I beckoned your frame back to hold them up instead. You obliged with kisses. The ones my mouth won’t forget. The ones new lovers share. Impatient and yet, savoured to tide us over until we could disappear again. I gave thanks with reciprocity before the cold crept in to swell and crack the intimacy. before the fear laid siege to your heart... only after I felt it beat in my own chest. The first beats, sure to become my favourite song. A song I try to forget. Crescendo. Silence.
"My God, I'm fond of you."
It sounds so hollow now and echoes in the vacant hallways where the roots of you were beginning to dig deep, down the paths beneath my skin.
It’s here a memorial stands and crushes the words of some boy who once said, "forget him."
It's here I remember.
It's here that I miss you.
And without bitterness or loss of affection, I hate it.