It’s hard to be back here in the same city as you.
It’s hard because I miss you, because I worry about you, because you’re near me.
You exist here.
You didn’t exist over there.
Here you have a phone and a house and a road and a bike and people see you.
People talk here.
We don’t talk here.
Here we read my old diary, and we remember the glass being dragged and the laptop being thrown and the bang, bang, banging on my door late at night when you wanted to erase me.
Here we remember the late night kisses and warm duvets and old comedy reruns about planets and solar systems and building houses.
Here we cling to old notebooks with old postcards and old photographs with old smiles and we cling to that old self which could cope with this ache.
It’s hard because we’re running out of tomorrows and you don’t know it yet.
It’s hard because I cling to my phone and I delete my “hello”s and I watch as the minutes tick by and I disappear.
I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ll always call you tomorrow.