we haven't talked in years,

though we can barely find a thing to talk about.

we sit across from each other and smile carefully,

waiting for something to happen.

i don't like to ask about your current life,

and you don't know how to ask about mine.

it's hard to begin.

the gaping hole in our chest stays agape, the scars on our heart are still unhealed.

we aren't bumbling fools from old class photos,

we've grown up.

we believe in different religions and converse in different tongues,

meanings have changed.

so we speak of different lives that aren't ours and

laugh over old memories we can no longer recall.

your voice used to be soft, mine used to be loud. now ours are both rough and raw, marred by worries and wryness.

your long, blue plastic nails click every time you raise your cup

and take a sip, leaving a half-fade red crescent on the white china.

your heels tap rhythmically on the roughened cement sidewalks,

and i scuff the toes of my shoes once or twice.

like a ticking countdown, the seconds cycle on.

i can't remember whose idea it was to meet up for a drink. i'm sure inside, we're regretting the decision.

sometimes we forget: a dead illusion is better than the new reality.

we love the ghosts that have long faded, not the new ones that come.

the breeze dances back and forth, ebbs and flows to the stream of pedestrians.

we look out across the glimmering lake, past the evening spring sun,

trying to find the city skyline,

while the leftover of our coffee is turning cold.

the woman on the table next to us lights a cigarette.

she's beautiful, i supposed.

kind of like you.

beautiful in a way that is defined in heavy blushes and dark lipstick, in faux eyelashes and curled hair.

she smirks at me over your shoulder, her eyes dance to the flickering orange tip.

neither of us smoke. a part of me wishes i did, just for the novelty of it.

let the nicotine do the listening, i do the thinking.

i watch the woman takes a slow drag

as the silence around us turns deafened.

our cups are empty, only a brown ring of condensation remains.

you're the first to stand, and i follow.

we split the bill, because that's what adults do.

i offer to walk you to your car, out of habit more than genuine care. i guess you can tell. the corner of your eyes crinkle nonetheless, when you shake your head.

we walk away, and the sound of our footsteps are quickly drowned by the crowd.