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And the days fade on, running into one another, as I wait to hear from you. Testing myself, forcing myself not to cling parasitically at your heels.
Waiting as the spaces between the words grow. Watching the transfer functions decay to zero.
Fumbling nervously with my shoelaces, and sifting through the ebbing flow of a thousand beautiful memories.
I will be here.
I will always be here, Waiting...

(This isn't supposed to be a poem by the way. Then again it's not really prose either.)

I took the chance, while I was in the city, to have dinner with an old friend that I had shared a flat with in university. I hadn't seen her for a couple of years, and it seemed stupid not to. It was a pleasant evening, in its way, though I realised how far apart we had drifted, how little we had left in common.

She had been through a bad relationship and as consolation had found God and Prozac. She had given up her career in archaeology, and was working in a job that was a cross between and archivist and a clerk in a small museum. She had lost a lot of weight, become vegetarian. She was self-contained, neat, she wore quiet subdued clothes and spoke in a quiet, subdued voice. As I saw her play with a salad, I tried to get the image of the bouncy giggly girl who lived on sausages and crackers out of my mind, and concentrate on the calm detached woman she had become.

I wonder what she saw, when she looked at me? Had I changed as much in her eyes as she had in mine?

When we parted, we smiled, and hugged and said we musn't leave it so long next time, both knowing that we would probably leave it even longer.

I realised, as I read this node on losing touch touch, that it has been ten years, and I don't know if she's alive or dead, and we were close once. Odd, how little things can make you cry.

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