incipient

I kept thinking about getting back to my room.

Putting on Elliott,

finally reading that one book Dad wouldn't stop talking about.

Crying over people who never existed,

because somehow that felt easier

than sitting across from someone who did.

I didn't know that 209 days later,

I'd hate myself for spending that whole night

putting my thoughts everywhere except where you were.

My mind has always been good at leaving before I do.

And now I'm here, trying to remember whether your hair caught the

light that night, or if memory decided to be kinder than I ever was.

Weird, isn't it?

I can still tell you what song I was listening to on my way back

home that night, but I can't remember what colour your eyes were.

It's funny.

You've lived under so many names that my friends know

exactly, and you'd probably hesitate if someone asked who I was.