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.