Collection of Warm Things

I went to the CBD yesterday.

It was the first time I had gone, thinking I'd be alone for at least awhile.

I had asked my friend if he'd be there, with a distant reply of "maybe".

It's funny.

I really hadn't expected him to be there.

It had been my miscalculation.

I, thinking that time was in abundance, had planned to kill time.

It was he who had turned up at the right time, waiting for me.
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I was standing there, looking for him.

It was to no avail, as I had been found by his friends first.

I had been startled by him, who had approached from behind and covered my eyes with his hands.

It reminded me, ironically, of an incident with Vincent at one of my favourite parks.

I cringed at the memory, sadness suddenly bubbling up from inside.

It had been a disaster from the very start and I only realised then,

I had effectively gotten makeup smudged all over his hands and around my eyes.
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It was a wish I once made.

I had wished for a dream date, where the guy would come from behind and do the same thing.

It had been of no consequence, the little wish.

I had been part of a truth or dare thing, except in my wish no make up had been smeared.

It hadn't been that particular friend meeting me either.

I hadn't been with a bunch of people.

It was meant to be gentle and sweet, memorable, lovely, not in a crowded square.

I hoped maybe, one day, dejavu would come visit me with a different companion.
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He's constantly thinking about her.

I can see his mind spinning his disco ball,

A mosaic of memories, pictures, film roles playing on repeat.

The only thing shining in the hidden spaces of his heart.

He's constantly talking about her.

The way he would walk with me, silent,

And suddenly perk up at a miniscule detail reminding him,

Something equally small about her

Breaking the silence I thought was companionable

To voice those snapshots of the past.

While I stand there in bittersweet silence, smiling along with him

Unsure what else there was to do.

It was sweet, seeing that smile

And the way he would stare, unseeing

The wistful expression, the relaxed posture, warmth

Knowing he'd been happy.

It was bitter too, I wasn't blind.

There probably wasn't a trace of me,

Anywhere in the only memories that could warm him

Make him want the past to return.

Seeing his face light up with a reserved joy

I had felt like an intruder

Witnessing something private, too personal, too tender and sentimental

To share with just anyone.

Unintentionally, on his part,

He probably wasn't aware at all

That he was doing the same for me, like the past did for him

Making eternally warm memories of better days.