I’m lucky that lovers left me with lessons, not scars, so that I may look upon the world and see happy memories manifesting in place of painful reminders of you, and you, and you.

Quite the realization; that it cannot fill the void, provide endless inspiration, or fix what you have broken.

Do you notice how quiet it is, how still, when you put away your phone, when the weekends come around?

The motion-blur deceived you, for all-the-while you were sitting still, waiting, still, hoping, still, that something else, someone else would direct your next position.

We grew up too fast, got serious jobs, moved in with our sweethearts, got dogs, had kids, and grew fond of wine; forgoing the hangouts, the night outs, the coffee and bars, for early nights and HBO, and shows where people our age stay up, have fun, hang out, stay young.

There is no joy in a life of happiness, void of strife or dilemma, concerned only with maintaining your high, and protecting against the lows. You design it so: a universe whose arms wind tight around your core; a black and heavy hole that you cannot understand or see, for all its hunger. Forever you may feed it, but you’ll never feel it shine, or hear it laugh, or thank you; for there is no joy, not in anything you do for you. Not in anything you create. Not in anything you destroy. Unless in doing so you find the truth, the joy, the meaning in life: to solve the hard problems, and end other’s strife.

I kept my distance. You held my gaze. And every time we laughed, I’d turn away, enamored, only to find you another edge closer.

I rounded the corner of the table during an animated recountment, trying to interrupt the magnetism; it drew you tight to the corner, and you were near-upon me once more.

You may remember it differently, perhaps bemused at this curious boy who keeps stepping back and blushing.