meeting an old friend

after you finished work, we met at a familiar place where neither had any homeground advantage, and the knowledge that we were in public, next to other strangers, was, i think, a comfort. they say that there is a permanent good to have loved someone, one time, even if you don’t remember all the circumstances, even if it was long ago. so i thought, we’re good. 

so sitting at the old bar, i remembered how the first year was like icing, but then the cake started to show through. that was fine too, but you forgot which direction you’re taking, and i was too in love to let it go. i remembered, how words grew heavy, even out of happiness, but that was anybody’s story. 

so sitting at the old bar, i read waiting for you, while the wind dropped and lovers stopped singing. i felt the wind of every extendable circumstance blowing against me, in and out of the afternoon. the surprises of history did nothing to prepare me for the shock of seeing you, who still wore time with colours of meanness and melancholy. 

so sitting at the old bar, we took another sentimental journey, as we do, with no destination in mind. the sky was open and i was genuine and that’s the best i know how to be, hoping that life knew where i was and would find me somehow. you made counterproposals so judiciously, it made whatever happened disputable. 

so sitting at the old bar, we had the look you always wanted. 

so sitting at the old bar, i was glad that we will never run out of paintings.