We treated the reveries embedded in our synapses the way we treated the gramophone,
with more romanticism than was called for,
I was worried that you would not love me if I told you how much I loved yesterday,
how I longed for years ago,
how I only knew from bliss when I recalled upon those few days of ours,
In my mind,
they were underscored with the misery of separation,
the euphoria that accompanies the naive notions of permanence,
When we were young,
saying forever was not the laughable word it has become today,
we were old enough now,
young enough to know our life did not work out the way we wanted it to,
but old enough to know we were making excuses for the apathy of our adolescence
Late at night,
less nights of late,
but at night nonetheless,
I imagined that our ghosts resided somewhere with the happiness we could never give each other,
I slept easier at night believing that perhaps there were no lines of demarcation when it came to what we left behind,
that when it came to the meridian of our mistakes, perhaps both the infatuation and the pain we inflicted on each other wafted away somewhere to take up the cause once again,
as our dutiful and steadfast proxies,
yes,
steadfast---
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