Found in an old journal...

Sometimes, I allow myself to think about you, and that day. You and I were walking down the street after breakfast - you had just told me about the latest girl you had kicked out of your bed. We stopped, waiting for traffic to pass, and you unexpectedly took my face in your hands and said “But these women? They will never be you.” It was so out of context for both the conversation and my version of you that my vision narrowed for a moment and I felt the blood rush out of my head as you stood, waiting for me to react. The light turned. You backed away and started to cross the street, talking of something else, walking ahead of me while I gathered up my dizzy self. For days I could feel your hands and see the bright flecks of green in your eyes and that one piece of hair that you could never get to lie flat poking out of your part.

I would replay it as I lay in bed next to S, not seeing anything with my open eyes, wondering only what you had meant. I had given up any hope of you years ago and was precariously, cautiously happy with S. And now I felt off balance, even while lying down. Your voice drowned out the sound of his breathing and I fell asleep to the melody of “they will never be you, they will never be you, they will never be you”.

Years later, I woke from a dream, thinking of you and the possibility that moment held had I been brave enough to grasp it and not let you carry the conversation on to something more benign. I thought “I will indulge for only a second…only until S comes back to bed.” Closing my eyes, I could already feel the pressure of your palms against my cheeks, and I sank deeply into what might have been.