I was thinking of you. Driving though the dark. The tawdry lights of the high street streaking the wet roads. I passed the road we used to walk along. Hand in hand. In the days when your hand fitted perfectly into mine.
I wondered if you’d seen your son. Or if you’d thought of home. Or if you still looked at girls with that half smiling twinkle in your eyes. And how many of them you’ve kissed. Since me.
I was thinking of you. And thinking about how things work out. How all the things you said were true. Even if it didn’t matter, then or now. How grateful I am for the choice you made. Not mine. But mine in the end. And I was wondering if there was anything to regret. I don’t think you’ll know what you did for me. With that twinkling glint. And that half-cocked smile. What you did for me when you picked me out, amongst that crowded place. What air you breathed into my tiny life.
And I was thinking of you. And wondering at these chance encounters. The accidental meaning of lives that collide. And considering if I could ever say this out loud. To you. If these thoughts could touch you in the way that you touched me. Or if it’s ok that they remain unsaid. That the resonance would be tinny and false if rendered into words.
I don’t know. I do know that I think of you. Arrogant and wounded and wasted. And so very, very bright. And I’m glad I took a chance. Thank you.