Car Ride

As I closed my eyes, I remember me in the passenger’s seat of your car, and you were mockingly telling me to get out because I didn’t know my way home. We were both bathed in sweat after our jog, and as we passed the traffic lights on the avenue, I found myself in the dark again.

I don’t know how you always come back, but you do. I don’t love you, I don’t like you, but I miss you. Or at least, I miss who you once were. It’s difficult to let go, I guess, of your shadow, which is pretty much the only thing I’ve held onto — reluctantly a remnant from when it was you and I. Not together, but it could have been. It’s poison to think we were, because there was no finality, no clause. It was just floating in space, like my head most of the time after you left.

I don’t look for the reasons why you left, but more of the reasons why I held on. It doesn’t make sense for me to hold on any longer, but I still find myself doing so whenever I am reminded of you. Even without your laugh or the smile reflected in your eyes, I can still see you in every insignificant thing, from the cobbled pavement to the color of the shoes I saw from a store window.

As I took off my seatbelt (and snapped a photo with you), I hugged you goodbye, not knowing in a few weeks, I wouldn’t feel you in that way again.

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