between you and I,
and we and us.
I wonder what you may be doing,
taking a nap perhaps?
Or petting some stray cat on the streets:
either way I hope you were thinking about me.
Have you been skipping meals lately, like I do when
time slips away while counting my faults until
I finally bump into you somewhere.
Then I switch to pointing fingers at all the wrongs you have done,
till I run out of fingers and breath and return to blaming myself:
I find it easier to list out the things I did in spite — or maybe I just see you in myself.
Have you been happy lately?
It’s a selfish thought for me to entertain.
I wish you aren’t while I’m holding on to these thoughts;
then at least you would reply to me.
It’s hard. I swear. To look at someone else the same way you always do and realise their head was turned towards another all along.
” Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs. ” – Jane Eyre, Jane Austen