I've Lost You
“I’ve found you!” He said. You said. A stranger said to me, sitting down beside me, thinking that I was someone else. Some other person just like me, sitting on a sidewalk pressing their palms into their knees, trying to make an imprint.
I lifted my head from my chest, to smile at you, but you saw your mistake, saying, “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
“It’s o.k,” I replied, which wasn’t true, but said anyways, “I’m fine with who you are.” So we sat side by side and watched the planes take off, and the bees take off, and the morning light take off and turn into dusk.
“This isn’t working,” you finally said, as the light began to fade, “I still want you to be somebody else.”
Which was hard to receive, because I thought we could make it work. So I pleaded, “Just imagine I’m her and I’ll imagine you’re him.” We closed our eyes, and we closed our lips, and we closed our hands tight around each other, holding our breath to wait. Wait for your hair to turn black and my eyes to turn brown and your legs to grow longer until you were him and I was her wrapped around each other.
We stayed like that a thousand kind seconds hoping the next moment wouldn’t come. The crucial moment right before we open our eyes and black hair turns back to blonde. We held our breath to keep it away.
And I knew that I’d lost you before you were gone.
| COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED