It was just something I wrote today in the JCR. Nothing really related to anything.
I knew it wasn't you and I knew I couldn't make it you, but still there was this line. Maybe it was crossing over into the murky depths of madness for a few seconds. Sort of like the feeling you get when you look out of a window for too long and the pane of glass seems to disappear. I started and stared at the back of this man's head, and I saw you. His mannerisms were yours, the way he moved was the way you moved. Not that I would know given that I can't see you anymore but I have to hold on to those shreds of memory. Those shreds of hope.
I sat down and very firmly noted that it wasn't you. I rationalised every factor of the situation. Why on earth would you be on a bus when you have a working car? Why would you be here, on this bus, when you live miles away from here?
All of this I knew in my head and, I stress this, I knew it wasn't you. Yet I stared and stared and still saw you.
I suppose it means I still miss you. I suppose that it means I still love you. That's the most frustrating part. It's not that you left, I can deal with that. It's missing you and loving you and wanting you so much that the past and the present intermingle and there you are, sitting in front of me on the bus.
