it's been twenty-five years since i've seen you last
it's been twenty-five years since i set foot in these halls last
since i've heard your voice echo down these staircases and in my very bones
we're forty-three years old
a far cry from the eighteen year olds we'd been
before everyone had left and
before i'd held your hand for the last time

you're there with someone else
someone probably better for you in every way i wasn't,
couldn't ever be;
you've gotten a hair cut, i notice; it looks good
you look good in that shirt, under those lights
you look good
you've always looked good, to me

i'm standing in the corner.
where else would i be?
surely not in the fringes of the middle, by your side.
the lights are too dim to see you clearly
but i still remember your smile
the lights are too bright
to consider daring to approach;
i've spent years content in your orbit
i can do it for a night more

i'm glad i get to see you again
i don't know if i will, ever, after this
you live half-way across the country
you don't live alone
you don't think of me
not like how i think of you.
twenty-five years, and i'd never
forgotten the warm press of your hand on my arm,
the brush of it on my neck
i'd never stopped longing for you
but our paths diverged too early, and
we were too young, and
besides.
i had only ever been the one pining.

i can't get any closer, anyways,
you'd notice me
you'd remember me
you'd smile at me
you'd hold your hand out,
and of course i'd take it.
but there'd be no familiarity, no comfort,
not like how i want it;
there couldn't be.
she's right there, and
you never thought of it like how i did,
regardless.

i wish we were eighteen forever
i wish we could spend an eternity
as seniors goofing off in the library
as juniors at opposite ends of the school dance
as sophomores in the hallways after school
as freshmen hiding in math class during lunch.
i wish i could hold to that simplicity forever
no pressure
no isolation
just you and me, friends,
comfortable with each other
comfortable in each others' spaces.
who cares what kinds of feelings i harbor?
who cares what you think of me?
i had the freedom to press my hand
against yours, and you
had the freedom to put your arm
on me as i slept,
and that's the only thing that
ever mattered,
could matter,
would matter.

i wish i could stay here forever
i wish twenty-five years from now never happens
i wish i could stop time;

i wish you were mine.

you left me, you know
see: i don't think you do
i don't think you've ever, ever realized
what you did to me

but whenever you ask
my tongue freezes up
fear clogs my throat
and i can never seem to get out
the perfectly-worded, numbered list of grievances
i laid awake composing in the dead of night,
throat raw from whispering my vindications
to myself over and
over,
waiting patiently
for situations exactly like this one

do you ever have
those moments where you want to die
because you're happy
and you never want to feel bad again?

humanity is just
finding meaning
where there wasn't supposed
to be any

they kneel in the
corner of the room, unaware
maybe uncaring
most definitely unfeeling

apathy: a symptom of depression
in their case, undiagnosed suffering

over the years of fighting
a disease that wanted them dead,
they learned what the worst part was.
not the self-hatred.
not the permanent exhaustion.
not the intrusive thoughts.
not the suicidal urges,
not the emotional instability.

it was the apathy.

they had periods of time,
hours, maybe days
in which they couldn't feel anything
a horrible numbness
like saltwater crawling in their veins
like their skin was drawn too tight
like their heart had stopped beating
hours of nothing.
days of nothing.
terrifying, but not
because they couldn't feel fear.

the apathy was an infection
they could not find it in them to care
they could not find it in them to smile
to laugh
to cry
to shout
to love
they could not find it in them to live.

the apathy was the
emotional equivalent
of a sensory deprivation chamber,
the kind intended for torture;
a horrible lack of sensation
designed to bring a person
to the brink of an indifferent insanity.

years later,
and i have recovered
i have grown
but in the darkest moments,
when i feel the saltwater
lap at my ankles
when i don't feel the terror
i know i should

i wonder
if this time is the time
from which i can't
recover.
i wonder
if this time is the time
in which i will forever lose
my ability to love.