The Man On His Laptop Across From Me At The Coffee Shop Looks Exactly Like You

Except for his eyes, which don’t search me like your eyes searched me, or the questions that stayed furrowed in your brow. Or his stature, which isn’t broad and boughed like branches. Or his presence, which doesn’t feel like a live electrical wire coiled around our bodies from where he is sitting to where I am sitting. Or his hands, which are not held to his lips, holding back the wanting, and the words I would want to hear. Seeing him and feeling nothing makes me wonder if there will be a time when I will see you and I will feel nothing, or feel something other than hollow-pitted regret. That there could be a time when I would have your eyes on me again and it would not feel electric. That I could stand next to you, shoulders not touching, hands resting easily in our pockets, unclenched, unreaching. That we may ask each other what our lives look like now and not feel sliced down the middle like the belly of a chasm. That we may listen with gratitude and not seering heartache, lemon juice on an open wound. That we may say something like I am happy that you are happy in your life you are living without me and maybe we will mean it

just a casual writer dreaming of closure in life

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