Departure

I watch you board the bus just two parking spots away from the ringing silence of my own car. I see the driver help you with your bags and usher you into the back seat and close your door. Now there are two windows between us. I see the darkened silhouette of your figure and imagination takes rein of the ambiguity. I remember us waking up this morning holding each other, and the many mornings before. I remember us cradling our cat, pretending it was our child. We are still too young to start a family. But it also means all the family we need for now is each other. I remember when you grew angry at me for forgetting to wish you happy birthday. I remember the guilt I felt. I remember you speaking parentese with me to warm my cold and calculated heart after a chess match. I remember you reading me poetry to slay my insomnia. I still taste your lips. You have no more form behind the windows than the memories which forge their own civilization in my heart. And like a shadow struggling to keep up with its owner, like tears that blur, you were whisked away, and all I could make out was the outline of your hand arranged in a half heart as the driver cut and stormed down the highway and as you disappeared from shadow to memory to nothing to nothing to nothing in my rear view mirror. Wiping my tears I found my hand arranged in the other half too, too late.