I imagine what I would say if I bumped into you on the street one day. I wonder if you’d be happy to see me or if you’d apologize for never calling after I asked you not to.
I wonder if you’d be alone or if you’d introduce me to her.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I would say with a smile that says, “You will never be me,” but I won’t let myself think that because there’d be no need to. You and I would look at each other, our eyes telling a story of its own.
We’d exchange some pleasantries, and for a moment or two, I would consider asking you to have coffee sometime.
Just to catch up, just for the sake of it, just to see if there’s anything left of what has died a long time ago. Just to look at you for a while. Just to feel you so close I could almost touch you, just so I could wonder if you’d let me run my fingers through your hair, and down your neck, and over your shoulders, and across your chest, along the veins on your arms, into the palms of your hands. Just to fill the silence of the years that have passed. Just to sit there and talk and laugh and not count the times I cursed my name and savoured yours. Just to talk about how life carries on, just to pretend that I forgot the words you said to me that night. Just to believe, for a moment in time, that what we had was special.
But I shouldn’t ask you to have coffee sometime.
I should smile at her, then look at you and say, “It was good to see you again.”
I should wish you well and mean it. I should walk away and not turn around to see if you turned around, too.