you’re still not back. or maybe you are, but i was not told of your return. i sent you a text last night. it’s not that i really missed you when you you were away, it’s just that i want you back here already. i’d like to pour out some thoughts at you, criticise a few people, gloat, get mad at you and then realise that is what i was expecting of the conversation all along – the quiet notes of sarcasm, the audible longing to be mine, the comfortable pauses you for some reason want to fill in. why do you want to fill them in?
yesterday i thought i’d get to talk to you at last. it’s not even that i’d hoped for it, no, i expected it. it was virtually a given. but no.
so i spoke to Y instead. i called him, of course.
he did call me the day before, around eight at night, but i was asleep then, the sheer exhaustion of the past few days tiring me out ot the point that i never woke up from my hour-long nap, or at least not until the next morning.
it’s strange to think he meant so much to me. he doesn’t really now. i talk to him, hell yeah, but that is it. i can’t imagine him being in my life again, his selfish ways, his trying to be what he isn’t, his race issues. no, i could not deal with that again.
but you. could i deal with you?
i’m not quite sure of that either. you’re so complex, you yearn for so much. you’re just like me.
and X is uncomplicated. simple. easy to understand. easy to deal with.
i guess that’s why he’s in my life.
i guess that’s why i’m still holding on to the dream that never was.
maybe you can change that when you come back.
and maybe, just maybe, you can’t…