We get really good at not saying, everything, anything, nothing. We get really used to the third person in the car. The one asking the questions from the backseat while I roll the windows down and you turn the music up. I get better at keeping my mouth shut and you get better at keeping your eyes closed. The days and the hours start to pile up and neither of has asked for directions since we met. I start to wonder since the weather got nice if I could stop the seasons from changing then could I stop everything from changing? A self proclaimed change junkie now holding on tooth and nail to bits and pieces I swore I would let pass by me, through me. I lied. I told you I was a bad liar. That was also a lie.
I start asking questions to strangers and pretend like you answer them. I start writing my name inside things you own hoping you’ll find them later. I start taking photographs like I haven’t in along time because loving you is like a terminal illness. I start writing stories about people I will never get to be. And you start writing songs about people you once were. When I think about this there is always wooden floors. There is always morning light. And there is always cheap wine. When I start writing about it, it’s always winter. It will forever be winter.
I decided to go see a fortune teller after we said goodbye last week. I kept three playing cards in my left pocket and I kept one eye on the door. She told me things about my mother and things about my lovers and something about missing pieces. When I asked about you she said, I can’t see the future. And I said, apparently neither can I.