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I saw you walking down the street last week. Your hair had grown out some and you dress better, but your gait hadn't changed. You still hold your shoulders back when you walk and rub your neck when you're bored, and walking is boring.
I thought about those Sunday nights when we would all sit around the Rocky Run Grill eating mozzarella moons and playing the trivia game. I thought about us doing donuts in that construction site and the time you let me drive your sister's Corvette. I lingered on that kiss on your back porch that awkward August evening. As a habit, I slowed down to give you a ride. You turned your head, but those weren't your eyes, that wasn't your smile. It was an imposter mimicking your walk; a stunt double strolling down my memory lane. I sped up, smirking at the irony of you disappointing me again, 900 miles later. One last time, you weren't being what I needed you to be. |