it was raining that day:
you looked at me, once, and said
that you would have accepted me;
only if i was from a life
more similar to yours
only if i was less of myself
and more of a holographic projection
that suited you
rather than me.
you apologised afterwards;
the words like rocks in your mouth,
or so you had said.
and i'd nodded
and continued
my aimless tour
around your old haunts.
you liked pottery,
or so you had said
with a frown
and a self-deprecating smirk
and i had to will myself
to keep my hands by my side
before i did something stupid:
like tucking a stray strand of hair
behind your ear.
you heard me swallow loudly and pretended
not to notice.
i looked away
hands digging deep in my pockets,
feigning interest
in an object that reminded me of
forests and rivers and home
where we'd never met
where i used to spend my days
stagnating in a fish-tank.
your steps grew quicker in kind
and your fingers skimmed lightly
over the surface
of a glass cabinet.
i ignored the bile rising
in my throat
and watched your impassive face
as cool as ivory,
and when you caught me staring
i looked away.
"what," you mouthed.
i walked over to you,
feeling my face burn,
and i shook my head.
you gave me a sad smile
and continued dragging me through the halls
each object bearing some sort of significance
to you.
"it's great that you know what you want,"
i had finally said,
because i didn't,
not really,
and you
gave a little snort and reached out to me;
as if you were about to ruffle my hair.
i stiffened and
you pulled back, looking like
you'd been burnt.
"sure," you said,
as if you were echoing to yourself
and i turned away
fixing my gaze towards the sky.
it was raining that day--
of course it was.
i watched people huddle together
seeking shelter.
we were miles apart instead;
what with you repeatedly pulling out your
phone to check the time,
and me wishing that i were somewhere else.
that i was someone else.
i felt curious stares in our direction
and i willed them away.
(it was raining that day.)
going home was an exercise in lucidity.
i hung my coat and collapsed on my bed
and stared at the ceiling
and i desperately wanted to know
what was wrong with me.
why was i not good enough;
never enough;
and the abyss in my chest
widened
with a tugging ferocity that
made me chase fevered sleep.
i closed my eyes and
counted sheep.
