I haven't thought about you properly in ages.
There's no need, I don't want you back.
I'd go as far as to say that you mean nothing to me anymore,
on a day to day basis.
But occasionally something small and insignificant
flicks the switch on the minature cinema screen in my mind
and your sepia face and our blurry memories flit across it briefly.
I stumbled across a bunch of old photos.
Old photos are a killer, aren't they?
They're just still-lifes of the pretty times so in photos, at least,
my whole past is bathed in silvery sunlight
and appears to be dipped in melted happiness.
There were just so many of me and you,
sometimes with my family, sometimes with yours.
(I wonder how they are? I saw your mum the other day,
but I didn't say hello, because she never did like me anyway
and to be honest, I didn't like her either.)
The thing I find strange, and sad, is
that it's not the frozen moments
where we're wrapped around each other
that make my stomach perform a sad little squeeze
and mist form along the surfaces of my eyes.
It's the one where we're stood apart, existing alone
as humans have to
but so obviously doused in the knowledge that,
at any moment, we can come together.
I miss that.