After three years, I agreed to meet up with you. I was wearing my casual Thursday while you were in shorts and a tank top. You asked if we could drink in your apartment, “For old time’s sake,” you said convincingly, flashing a devilish grin. At first I insisted for coffee. Yet after a couple of cigarette sticks burnt to their filters and some teasing for my ‘pretentious’ drunken calls, in the end, I found myself walking down the familiar street that leads to your place. “I’m home,” I muttered to myself while you bolted the door shut.

I am finally home

In your arms, that’s how I saw this happening. You ignore my messages, I refuse to give up just yet, and we move in circles never to meet at any point. But we did yesterday, and much, much more, and though I never saw this coming—I on you, you in me, moving hungrily in the room like dogs gone mad, lost in the language that our naked bodies only comprehend. Someone has never been so wrong when she wrote that we are never getting back

Together: that’s how I see us—in the morning, on the streets, in bus stops, now, and many tomorrows, stuck in forever; or in nights when the air gets heavy and we need an escape from this city. Before we broke up, you said that it wasn’t easy to imagine a world without you. You were right, of course, except you failed to say it was also tormenting and impossible. “I was hurt,” much to my surprise, you admitted. “I was running away from your memories. But did you wish—even for just once that—you were better off alone, without me?”

Like a sinner kneeling before a confessional, in my softest of voice, I whispered:

I didn’t.

I never did.


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