Two

And it was just a slip of the tongue but, God, I wished it was so much more.

Yesterday was my birthday. You told me you loved me. I think that one day I won't be able to hear your voice whispering in my ear when it rains.

I thought that things were getting better. I think they've only gotten worse. In distance I've found a strange but startling peace. I don't know that it's comforting.

But I know that in this place, this place that is does not exist, I've become more real than I've ever been. I can feel the pieces that I gave to you being reborn, finding a place, healing me. They're colder somehow than the ones that were missing. They're stronger. Then again, it's November and it could all just be one fading dream.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing in particular."

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"Do you think you'll ever forget?"

Rain tapped against the window, trying to get in. I thought about the question, thought about the answer, denied the truth.

"Sure, just not yet."

It's been two years.

I'm sitting in my car at yet another stoplight and I can't help but reflect on the metaphorical implications. I'm at a standstill. While I should be thinking about the upcoming party, who will be there, whether or not Jason and I will get a chance to talk, how I'll get home later—all I can think about is that two blocks northwest of me, your car is parked outside your house and you're inside studying or sleeping or she's there with you. And there is a small, masochistic part of me that wants to drive by and see if I'm right.

The light turns green.

I keep driving.

Small victories.