I. Today, I walked past it - your building I mean. I almost forgot it was there. Well I didn't, but I wanted to, so I paused to read the name (not yours - the building's) and then walked on.


II. I sat outside your building today. I wanted to go in (really), but I knew I couldn't handle it. I looked up at the brick that carefully outlined the cold, clear sky (it wasn’t as bright without you). From those windows - the ones in the staircase right under the chimneys, I guessed the third from the left was yours.


III. I actually went inside today, and sat on that bench. You know, the one normally flooded with sunshine from the skylights. But it was darker then because the sun already left for the day (it sets earlier now) – and the fluorescent lights are suffocating when I can’t count the stars with you.


IV. I cried today. Sitting on that couch; you might've forgotten it with the rough pillows and barely room for two (although we always managed to fit). I no longer matched the cheap upholstery – my summer tan faded, and your knowing hands weren’t there to make me blush.  And, afterwards, I put my feet up on the table, and, yes, it was pulled up quite close, and, yes, it reminded me of you.

V. I walked past your building today and didn't notice until I got home.


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