i.

You're made of mortal flesh and bones

Yet you dreamt in colours and magic.

ii.

In your dream, the city the tarmac rose to meet the revolution of my bike,

the thin frame creaked under our combined weight.

"You will miss me?"

"You think I can forget you?"

I couldn't remember what we were talking about before or after that,

Only that I wanted you to keep on laughing and laughing.

iii.

Your hands hold on to my hips,

And I willed myself not to turn around because I know you would disappear.

iv.

We were standing in the middle of the devoid road,

There were no cars, no motorcycles, no bikes.

Just us, walking down the painted yellow lines.

Your white uniform billowed in the wind.

Your hair was shorter now,

And you wore softer sandals that squeaked when you moved.

Your voice rebounded, round and round my head,

But you were speaking a foreign tongue.

v.

You turned around, and you weren't you.

"You will miss me?"

"You know I will."

You hummed noiselessly.

It was a lie and you knew it.

vi.

You said:

"You're fixated on this semi-reality you weave for yourself:

You love a girl, a boy, a somebody/anybody hoping they will complete you.

You love them because they're unreality you can't obtain for yourself.

You love those that trust you and those that believe in you because you can't do that to yourself.

You keep falling in love with versions of you that you want to be, searching for a definition of yourself, trying to hold on to something that isn't yours.

What you're feeling isn't love.

You won't miss me, you won't remember me. Because you will find somebody to project yourself onto.

That's all I am to you anyway, no? A projection of your hope and dreams."

I blink

awake

There was the bland, blotched ceiling of my bedroom. The mattress was too warm and soft. My neck hurt.

Your words still rang in my ears.

That could be a memory, as much as a dream.

vii.

Last time I talked to you, you had this distant look in your eyes.

We didn't hug, or grin at each other, because you didn't like touches and I didn't feel right hugging a half-stranger.

We haven't seen each other in months, my flight was leaving in the afternoon.

The fissure between us made it hard to breath but I was happy to indulge this whimsical fantasy of having you and being with you.

I like to play-pretend and reside in this go-lucky life where everything is free and glowing and the possibilities are boundless.

You didn't call me out for it, so I guessed that was fine.

You know me well.

viii.

"You will miss me?" You asked, but your back was to me. You weren't looking, and your tone told me precisely you didn't really care anymore.

"I will miss you. Lots." I said, anyway. Although it really doesn't matter either way because it wasn't like I have the power to change, to influence, to be important in your life.

The space between what-ifs and maybes stretched between us. We left them unexplored, uncharted. You were flipping through a novel and explaining the plot I didn't really care to listen to, and at some points I realized you stopped talking because the most I contributed to the conversation was distracted agreeing noises.

"I want to go home," You said, putting the book back.

"Alright."

So I took you home. Watched you locked the front gate, then biked home.

The last day I spent with you was supposed to be great, fun, teary eyes. It was just a normal day, in the end. I wished things were different, but if I went back in time, I wouldn't know if I could change anything.

ix.

Fast-forward:

"Happy birthday," I last texted you on your Facebook wall.

That was five years ago. I checked.

You didn't reply.

x.

"You will miss me?" I asked.

"Will you miss me?" You countered.

"No." I said.

And you smiled, like you knew the truth all along.