Ides of May

What a familiar spot. I’m sitting across the empty chair, and it’s still engraved in my head. You, sitting across from me, sipping on your tea. We talked about our lives nearly two years apart from each other. Nothing much has changed. Your sense of humor hasn’t changed, and you are still capable of making me laugh about anything and nothing at all. The train on the tracks above us passes by, eliminating the standing silence. Are you comfortable? Are you as nervous as I am? I look at your hands— they still look raw, and still look like they did when I first met you. I offer you a piece of my bread, and you decline. I try not to take it personally. It’s not personal. I’m sitting in front of the flowers, I try to accentuate how beautiful I am by surrounding myself by beautiful things. You said I looked nice. I politely thanked you, and it all suddenly became formal. I showed you my poetry. You said that it was “really good,” but I wonder if you know that nearly all of my poetry is written about you in blood. I’m sure you caught on. You showed me a book that you were reading, you were surprised by the alternate ending. You weren’t expecting such a change. I was thinking the same thing. Your phone kept ringing. I knew you had to leave soon. My pride wouldn’t let you leave, but I had to let you go. You said that you were “really glad we caught up,” but instead, I heard “I miss you.” Without thinking, I hugged you goodbye. I could feel that we were both in different places. We cannot go back to 6 years ago to when we first fell for each other. My heart is not a time traveler, and it’s not possible. I sit across the empty chair, and I remember how you smiled when we talked. That’s all I can remember, and nothing in between. If only I had read between the lines, I could’ve noticed that you weren’t really there with me. You were with her, and I was with myself.

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