We slept on your living room floor that sweltering Summer. Our overheated bodies attempted to absorb the small amount of, cool, humid air escaping the deafening swamp cooler.
No matter the night, your eyes always closed first. Accompanied by your slow breath, the feeling of loneliness would fall over the room like a dense fog.
Despite my proximity to you I could not fight the feeling of singularity. If you would have folded yourself into me, I would have still needed you closer.
On some nights I would walk to the large window that faced a busy intersection, and watch as the city performed a symphony.
The changing of lights, the passing of cars, the drunk laughter of strangers.
Somehow these strangers felt more like home, than you ever could;
with them I was able to imagine possibilities, with you, I knew this was as close as I was ever going to be.
We were actors, waiting for someone to claim the role of the villain. I'm sorry I made you play the part.
Yesterday I passed the bench in Union Station where you would wait for my train. I imagined you there amongst the chatter, and honking horns and there I was, 8 years later, alone (with you) in the fog, again.