In Tense

Everything about you was a disaster--which inevitably, and with my own volition, made me a saint. You invalidated my existence, but only because I let you do that--day after day. We were good at that, you and me. We were very, very good at staring at each other from afar, expressing our feelings as the eyewitness to each other's newfound happiness. Always a hop and a skip and a jump away from each other.

It was always one or the other with you and me. I couldn't forget the thought of your cheekbones and what I believed the sadness in your eyes said about me. And you would watch my conversations waiting for me to laugh at just the right moment, the moment that would inspire you, in your chest, right there, as it always had--from the get go.

We were more than lost on this. We were lost on each other--and incapable of understanding the meaning of empathy.

But you weren't Nick Gatsby and I was far from a Daisy. And I suppose that was what was to come of no eye contact.