Never The Right Time

I'd always imagined how I would run into you one day. Our meeting would not be coincidental. We would probably going to meet at one of your, or our mutual friends, gig. It would be somewhere in the South, maybe at a pub. An Irish pub with open garden at the back, but inside the lightings are bitter, perfectly match with the damp scent of spilled ale on the wooden bar. I'd arrive half an hour late than scheduled, so I know you would be there already. I would find you next to the stage with a group of people. I might know some of them through brief introduction years ago. I imagine you would be surprised to see me, though our mutual friend may or may not have told you I would come around. I could see the mild shock as your lips mumbled my name as you were standing facing the direction where I come from. I could not help to smile. A simple hi would feel light, almost I have been waiting, wanting to say this to you for a very long while.

The spotlight of cliches would follow immediately, with us in the centre of the stage, as always. But this time, as I come closer, I'd notice the girl next to you; and your hands were interlocked with hers. This should not be a shock to me as one of your friends have told me about this. I honestly have anticipated this. Only I thought it'd be easier, I thought I would not feel this mere suffocation in the centre of my chest. You'd introduce me to your girlfriend, both in hesitation and genuine excitement. You haven't seen  me for years, I could tell you were torn in between to embrace me in your arms, like you always did, but there was no more space. A part of me would also still wish I could still drown myself in your chest cause boy, I have missed you. But in the edge of politeness, I would just smile. Both of you look good together, not anything extraordinary, but as modest as one can be; she seemed lovely in her pastel colored retro dress just under the knees. Her long black hair was tied in a pony tail and her short fringe comb to the side. But your look would own my attention the most, your hair had grown long to the shoulder, it seem darker and more sleek. Your eyes looked weary, the wrinkles next on the side of your eyes seem more apparent when you smile. Aging made you look older, and wiser, too and I loved that. It matched well with your thin beard. In the same time, you still look familiar as if I have never left this city. But what struck me the most, you look happy. 

Although I could tell from your eyes, for a moment, you were so close to let go of the hand you were holding just because the rush of the past caught your nerves so bright and fast like a camera flash. After the introduction, you'd carry on asking how I have been doing but without the usual compliments about the little details like my hair cut, my body or the blue contacts I'm wearing. To let this slip from my thoughts, I'd answer enthusiastically, saying glad to be back home. I'd make you think I'm doing great — I am truly, honestly, but maybe I would be better if it were my hand that you were holding. We don't hold grudge at each other but even worse, we hold imagination, assumptions and all the what ifs caged safely underneath our ribs; cause we were never been together, but we both know we would like to but there was never been the right time. I would like to ask you do you still make bagels and how the recording studio going and so much more. I'd steal you away from the crowd in a heartbeat and sit on that round table for two and talk till the river runs dry. But I couldn't, the crowd would not be just a crowd anymore, you would be part of them, not a piece that I could steal, or keep. And so I decided to make it brief and excuse myself to the bar. It would be all because I could not stay close to you without wanting to kiss you, so bad.

It's funny I always imagine how I would run into you one day but also imagine how I would run away from you soon after.