I think the worst part is I still see you every day. I see you in half empty aisles of the grocery store, skimming through bottles in search of your shampoo, the kind that smells distinctly of the back of your neck. I still have to pass you, sitting on the bench three blocks from your house, and convince myself to keep walking, that even if I turned around, even if I fell into your arms, even if you held me, just for a second, as tightly as you held me years ago, you’d never want me back. The worst past is I’m not even sure if that’s true.
I still notice your presence, I still seek out your eyes in crowds of people rushing past me in narrow hallways, as you march, distracted, towards me. And every breath you take is a warm gust of air after centuries of drowning beneath icy waves and my heart beats to their rhythm. And I ache to cross your path once more but I know that would only leave me more broken than I already am, and so instead I wonder if you still play with the fingers of a hand that rests in your own or if my head still fits perfectly in the curve of your neck or if the scar on your hip still plays peek-a-boo with your shorts.
I think the worst part is how I long to smile at you as we pass but I don’t know if you’ll smile back.
So I don’t smile at all.
j.a
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