You and I, both witnessed people walking away from our lives. So this time around, we wasted no time in putting on our running shoes; perhaps to win a conquest, where the one who walks away first triumphs; in our case, the one who runs away first. This was a race we shouldn't have participated in. We made a mistake as we kept looking for errors in each other.
But I'm glad none of us is waiting for the other to run anymore. I stopped following you. And the people who were chasing our future more than we ever did, also stopped. We are a discarded story and a stale rumor now. Let's acknowledge, in fact, put it down on paper. We are erroneous. We are runaways; we left our respective homes to build a home together. All we ever did was run. Spill it, scream it out aloud. We are runaways!
And honestly, nobody cares.
However, although we are errors in manifestation, we permit diversity, a difference from the norm. That's what I always said. But was I wrong?
Now our voices are words exchanged on work phones. Nonetheless, I believe you haven't completely overcome my love. So I call you up and tell you, “I want to see you.” It is merely out of concern, but I don't let you know that, lest it'd hurt your pithy ego. I'd like to believe that I have some kindness still left, unlike your predispositions about my indifference and cruelty.
When I see you, I want to see myself. I want to know the way you saw me the first time, and I want to know if you see anything different—because we had told ourselves of how sure we were about ourselves and what we'd become, but I guess we weren't. Were we?
I write—brief passages and poems. I send most of them to you. You understand some. I call you up again, but not at work. This time, it is on the telephone at your place, and I talk about the berry custard pie that my slender fingers sink into. You are hungry. I rip your clothes and make a quilt out of the scraps. I look into your Himalayan eyes and quiver. Then I remember, I never fell in love with your eyes. It was something else. That head, which carries your brain. I stroke your hair and read you a poem. You don't seem to understand. I adore the confused look on your face. You're a disoriented car stuck on a crossway. I fall in love: in love with the beats that go erratic when we're silent enough to hear them.
I think about you often. I think it is a mistake. I think about the untouched raw berries that would taste like fireworks in our mouths. I wonder what if we would have waited for them to ripen. My palms sweat. I feel a strange wrench in my gut. Would we crush them beneath us to make wine?