I think of you often, Stranger. I think of you. And as I do, I see your painted nails ballet across the keyboard with a mouse on the hand at your workstation. I think of your clothes. Ironed. Draped so beautifully around you. The crisp folds of your clothes brush against the years piling onto my skin. Like a prisoner and his wall, the ironed contours of your clothes mark the years on the small of my back- first one and then another, and another still. We have been strangers for a while.
I think of you often. My eyes reflex to a close when a wild strand of your hair glides past me in the wind. I think of your long fingers and your dreams. Your dreams were contagious. And your hopes painful. The old light in your eyes still burn mine to tears. Yes. I think of you often. But when I think of your voice, I break.
When my ears begin to echo your life, I am taken back. Too far back than I can bear to go. And so I travel onward. Onward. Onward. But the sand seems too quick this time of the year. And standing there, tired of the effort, my legs cry to cave, and I can feel a wail course its way through the edges of my lungs.
I breathe out instead. I want to cough you out… But I find myself holding back a reservoir of tears aching to spill out.
I think of you often. And suddenly, everything is that much harder. The boy who won’t pick me. The missed opportunities. The awkwardness. The people and the every day struggles seem that much more dramatic. And I can’t seem to know how to let go.
All because I think of you. And then I break again.