People will talk about how they used to love you.
And, as an afterthought, will say they still do.
It’ll happen when the time you were present,
Is over taken by the past.
When those people look in the mirror,
And no longer recognise who they were
When you were you.
It isn’t a personal attack,
Or mark upon your existence,
Albeit, endeavor to exist.
It is time.
When it first happened,
I’d look out the window of my office on the fifth floor
And wonder, if possible, you would regret the decision to never feel summer on your face again.
Every time I met with our friends thereafter,
I would share those sombre memories of our last years together,
And I questioned, if possible, you would yearn to hear our simple banter.
And what we had?
With me tucked into the bend of your knee and body,
If possible, would my hands still make your skin tingle
And my eyes, convey the heat of good, unforgettable sex?
Time has taken that away.
I met someone.
I do not fit into the bed of their knee,
My skin does not tingle at their touch.
The sex could be better, it’s not you.
But after all of this, it is consistent. It is constant. It is as time is.
As you were not.