To My Shooting Star

one

"Won't you miss me?" you said in a laughing matter- as if I wouldn't. I didn't say anything because you knew the answer, everyone knew the answer.

The windows of Grand Central Station casted light upon the place where you stood as if you were the quintessence of all the most treasured items in this world. The early spring air bit at our fingertips that peeked from our coat sleeves. We walked to the train you were scheduled to get on in silence. You held my hand loosely but I walked a pace behind you. We eventually reached the station in which we would say good-bye, in which you would take a train North to Montreal, in which I would stay, missing you. We sat down with our backs against the brick wall to rest and spend the last moments of the seven months we had together, although we spent them with the sound of my passive tension echoing off of our rib cages and amplified in the silence between us. You had no more to say, you spoke your mind, you were done with this city, and done with me.

The train arrived, my foot steps followed yours to the door of the train where you put a hand on my shoulder for the last time and then you turned away to find yourself a seat and that was all.

I remember it hurting; not just the indecent goodbye, but just looking at you the whole time I knew you.