Standing before the porch, I saw a boy and a girl, sitting together. Her legs lay across his lap as she leaned against a side post and sketched his face on a bit clean canvas. Ink permanently stained her fingers. A smile permanently lit his eyes. They were talking and I could almost make out the sounds, but the heavy air between us drowned out the words.
When I walked past the house, the porch grew vines, the lights went out inside the house, and my love and I no longer lingered there.
Walking down the road, I stopped before the playground at the elementary school. Looking in, I saw a young girl sitting on a swing. A little boy walked up slowly behind her, and began to push her. She laughed and then the boy smiled. Taking a step past the playground and then looking back, the eerie evening light flooded the silence. There was no little me, pushed by no darling little friend.
Eventually I came across an ice cream shop, outside of which stood a teenage me and teenage him. We held our ice creams as we talked uncomfortably. We smiled but there is always something awkward in the moments of attraction, when nothing is clear. Then, a teenage him drew up the nerve to kiss his first teenage me. But when I looked back, the shop was closed, and no teenage boy had the nerves to kiss the missing teenage me.
Then, there it was. His house. In the window, on the second story, in the left corner of the house, stood a beautiful man, looking down on the weeping me, standing on the corner. Weeping me was calling up to him, wishing for him to come down. But weeping me, knew that he couldn’t. He was sick today. He was sick everyday after. So he stood in the window, and he stared down at me. When I looked back to that window, there was no sick man looking down on any weeping me.
Then, when I turned back to the street, the street on which we had met, loved, and lived, I was alone. There was no him to love me while there somehow was still a me loving him. When I turned back, he was no longer with me.