Galaxies

Do you ever think of me? Oh, I wouldn't have back what we had for the world, full of emptiness and repressed urges. Besides, now you have her. But do you ever think of me, when it's dark at night and you can't quite get to sleep, and to recapture a feeling more than a moment, picture my face before guiltily replacing it with hers?

You never know whose fantasy you are. There may be dozens, even hundreds, of people who imagine you when you're not there. You become important to them through those intimate instants. You'll probably always be ignorant of your minute stardom.

And now I can almost feel your lips pressed against my shoulder as I scribble, cold fingers brushing my hair across my neck. I turn to look, but I know you are across this galaxy of a southern state from me. (Warning: this thought process encompasses more than one person.)

So why do I care? (Excellent question. I may even endeavor to answer.) Well, there's something about multitudes that leaves one feeling utterly alone. (Ah, my favorite paradoxical truth.) No matter how much you smile and laugh, and lie with words about support and family, you know that (I know that) you are (I am) still that girl who scribed nonsensical chimes in the shade of a bus. (Second person narrative is never really second person.) You were the only guy who ever made the lies even a little bit true.

What she says isn't true, though. I don't want you back - not in that sense. I may remember laying in your arms, but it's more for the feeling than for the moment. I am only happy that you two are happy, because though I may miss both your conversation, you both deserve your smiles and romance. (I guess I don't really want to know if you ever think of me. I'm not that important.)

Maybe now I will finally be able to drift to sleep in your embrace, though you may as well be galaxies away.