I was riding the blue line back home after working a double and I started thinking about Friday night. “You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will.” starting playing while we were playing flip cup. Why someone put that on a playlist at a party is incomprehensible. I fled my apartment in tears, pushing strangers out of my way to escape. I was too overwhelmed by all the unprocessed emotions I shoved into Bright Eyes to notice I was making a scene. I’m always making a scene.
I swallowed the lump growing in my throat. I was not going to cry over you. I was not going to cry over you for the fifth time since the new year. For the hundredth time since we broke up. For the uncountable fucking time since I saw you in the cafeteria four years ago. I cannot believe I’ve known you this long, and I have gone so long without you since.
I sat on the blue line tonight and wanted to cry. I listened to Bright Eyes. I pictured you laughing and scratching your stomach, wearing that black and lime green shirt I begged you to let me keep.
But I couldn’t cry. I just ache. I started writing a poem of sorts while riding the train about you. I can’t remember any of it now.