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My friend gave me a photograph from that weekend we were together, the two of us sipping coffee on the roof near sunset. The picture speaks so much.

You sit a small distance off, half your face in shadow and all of you out of focus, for the lens cannot catch us both at once. I sit nearer, the sun so bright on the back of my neck, and I stare at your face, all smiles.

You are looking down at your coffee.

It feels like this is how we always were. You covered yourself in a haze that made you fuzzy through poems and long distance conversations, and your legend as the father figure to all of my friends. As I peered at you, my own life came sharper into focus, but I never got any closer to you.

How you made me smile, though.

Every time I stared at you, I swear you were intent on something else, always in a world all your own, far off even though I was close enough to touch you. I wonder how I can miss you when I never even saw you. I wonder how we always sat so close to sunset, veiled half in darkness, yet why this night has yet to fall down and cover these feelings of you. I wonder what I am going to do now, when this photograph will fade and this cold room will disappear.

I wonder what you're doing now.

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