Some people never have a problem with meeting up with old friends. It's easy for them to remember what it was like without wondering exactly what it'll be. Then again, most people don't meet up with old friends who they were once in love with... still in love with.

Maybe "in love" is too strong of a sentiment, but there's nothing else you could call it: lust and infatuation do not last for 5 years. Maybe it's some kind of undefinable limbo in between, an everlasting dance across hot coals, to bring it to extremes. Whatever it is, I've tried to get rid of it with no avail.

So here I sit; fancy restaurant because I know him well enough to know how much he likes showing off his wine knowledge, dressed as well as I know how, waiting.

Perpetually waiting - waiting for him to arrive, waiting to reconcile, waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

I constantly glance at the entrance, watch as various people walk in and out, heart skipping a beat each time the door opens. I scold myself for being so unbelievably silly and suddenly find myself recognizing the figure shaking snow off his collar. He finds me looking at him, beams a smile that causes shockwaves to run through m body. As he walks forward, I stand up, awaiting a hug - I don't hug very much, but under friendly pretenses, I pretend as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

He takes a seat and waves over the maitre'd. He doesn't notice the way I'm staring intently at him, drinking in every single detail of his being, at that moment: store it away in the depths of my mind just so I can get drunk on my memories when he's not around.

We're always polite with each other, first and foremost; He asks how I am, an obligatory greeting that can be sort of ambiguous being used by myself both at times when I care and don't. I lie to him and say that things have been absolutely great in the few months he's been gone. I return the same question.

"Great! You wouldn't believe all the shit that's happened"

But I assume it's good because he continues to smile while he speaks - a genuine expression of happiness, a sharp contrast to the thing I've come to plaster on my face.

"I've met someone..." His eyes sparkle in a way they've never done so before: I know what that means but still have a sliver of hope that it's not going in that direction. Suddenly a rush of hatred comes over me and I remember how I came to hate that expression of his with a burning passion. Hell, I've met lots of people too; the homeless guy on the corner of my street introduced himself to me the other day - you don't see my going around saying "I've met someone..."

I try to hide the sound of my heart cracking in two from him, raise my eyebrows in a teasing way and merely say, "Oh?"

"I think you'd like her: She's a teacher, has a great sense of humour, she's smart and she's well, gorgeous." He looks at me as he says this, and I wonder if he can tell that every joyous word coming out of his mouth is slowly stabbing into my chest and twisting itself in its ambition. All I can do is keep a vague smile upon my face.

Of course she's gorgeous, of course she's smart and funny - he doesn't deserve any less that that. They're never women I can hate.

"She sounds great!" is all I can manage without knowing that I'll choke on my own words.

"But enough about me, what's been up with you?" I break into a bigger smile at the sheer irony - he wants to know what I've been doing while he's been gone.

"Not much..." and it's really the truth. I do the laundry, think about him, go to work, think about him, go out with friends, think about him. I contemplate telling him this, wonder why I do this to myself and continue this charade of self-deluded happiness.

Conversation seems to go on, mostly from his efforts. He tells me tales of adventure and of quiry co-workers. At the back of my mind all I can think about is the fact that this relationship, right here, has gone as far as it can go. I add in my usual tidbits of experiences, and by the time I know it, it's almost midnight.

We bid our farewells - another hug, and in my mind I hang onto him much longer than I should. After all, he belongs to someone else. We don't make plans for the next time we'll see each other, our schedules are too unpredictable for us to be able to do that. We part in separate directions on the parking lot, and someone how I find myself, a few weeks later, sitting in the same restaurant, a few tables away, waiting.

Always waiting for him.

Broken Hours

Sometimes, I need to remember that my life isn’t a movie. Days don’t go buy as a series of exciting and significant events that somehow lead to a climax and resolution. I never live happily ever after, I just live, and it’s that simple and complicated all at the same time.

Moments will pass by and I’ll remember them so clearly that even ten years down the line, I can still recall each and every active sense that was present. Then there are the big events that people are supposed to remember like your prom and high school graduation, but they merely become distant blurs in a wrinkle of time that you can never really seem to get back.

Our relationship had both of those things.

He walked into my life and I didn’t really take note of it until several months later. There wasn’t any shining light that surrounded him, no arrows pointing towards his direction that were labeled “potential love interest!”, nor was there any melodic violin tune that indicated the significance of his arrival. No, he was just another guy, completely unassuming, tall, a little bit lanky, and not unlike several other men I’d known at that time. I would have never predicted that he would play on my emotions so much like a timpani that I’m still recovering, two years later.

I stand before a bottomless pit that's filled with nothing but darkness. Uncertainty and fear waver throughout my body. Suddenly, my limbs feel numb, they've been cut off, detached, dissociated. A constant buzz of adrenaline makes my heart beat faster than normal. Pounding blood through my veins, I'm suddenly aware of every little thing around me. It makes me shiver. My eyes start to well up but I don't allow the tears to fall.

It's hard to leave all that you thought you'd never leave; It's hard to leave it all behind when there's nothing even there. It's only the speculation into what could have been that makes it hard.

Things have a funny way of working out. "It wasn't meant to be", they say. But what if it was meant to be. Then nothing will ever be right again.

A firework flickers in the distance
A pause
and awe.

Silhoutted shadows of existence
Fall upon darkness
and contemplation

Spots of brightness
A long time away
and respect