Shadows of our Formal Selves

Seeing you again was like seeing a ghost, some mist from my past that was back again to remind me of who I used to be, of what I used to be.

Sneaking peeks and avoiding glances all night, we never said each others names or talked to one another, out of fear that verbal confirmation that we knew each other would send this facade we had silently agreed upon crumbling.

No, we never acknowledged each other despite the fact that everyone else knew about us, and our cliche sordid past full of luke warm trysts in stolen, half forgotten nights.

It was less than a year ago that you picked me up on the side of the road and whisked me off, driving too fast for this small town, our hearts beating too fast for this small town.

There had been many nights that had been like this, but you immediately realized that this one was different. As I cried and trembled in the passenger seat, we both realized just how broken I was.

I fumbled over words, trying to contain them despite the fact that the dam had all but burst. My emotions spilled over. I talked for the thousandth time about how I was dangerously and violently frustrated at being in this cage. About how I felt trapped and suffocated. About how, if I didn’t get out soon, if it turned out that the grass wasn’t greener on the other side, I would die. We both knew that this wasn’t a threat, it was a fact.

You parked in the abandoned lot near my house, and then, for the thousandth time, you thanklessly brought me back down and explained why life was worth it. As I sat shaking, you did what you had always done for me in my moments of defeat. You reassured me that it was this town, it was like an anchor, that the longer I stayed the deeper I would sink. You told me that once I got out, I’d be alright. Everything would be alright.

But would we be alright? Despite all that had happened between us over the years, you said yes, that you would always be my crutch. That we would be there for each other in ways that other people hadn’t been able to. That bonds like this didn’t break.

But a few days later, over stale coffee, I couldn’t admit to either myself or to you, that I had made the most mistakes, that I could have been better, that I knew what I had been doing, that I didn’t want to share you, that I had been the one to run us into the ground.

A week later, I left for good.

And now, months later, here we are again. In the same town that almost killed me, amongst the same people who knew about us but really didn’t, acting as if we have never met each other before.

I suppose, if you would listen, I would tell you I am sorry. But perhaps I’ll never get the chance, perhaps you’ll never know. Perhaps we’ll both continue on, as shadows, as ghosts, as mist, aging until our bodies catch up to our souls. Perhaps that’s life, but I don’t really know.

After all, it was always you that could explain these things to me.