photo credits here
That night, with the metallic pelting of rain filling the room, you looked at me and your eyes pulled me in with their pleading. Your voice broke the scattered silence, rough and desperate. “What is it?” you asked me, hands outstretched, as if reaching for something unattainable, “What is your truth?” I stared at the ground and then at the searching look reflected in your eyes. “I don’t know,” I replied.
Lately I’ve been walking along the paths we used to walk together, seeing the sights we used to see, but feeling alone. I see your tears in every fluttering leaf and hear your pleading in every whoosh. Every step I take brings me further and further away from when I had you. Your question still rings aloud in my head. I search and scavenge for my answer in every turn I take, but always seem to come up barehanded.
Sometimes I flip through the old photobooks and brush my fingers against your face printed on the yellowing pages. In all the photos I’ve come across, you were smiling, your hands wrapped around my waist. But something about your expression always seemed off, almost like you were unsure. I can’t believe I never noticed it before. You always seemed to be looking for something, or more likely, for someone.
Only when it didn’t matter did I finally arrive at the answer to your question. The question that ended us and the answer I couldn’t find in time. If I had looked you square in the eye, and replied without hesitation, I wonder if things would have been different. If I had seen myself in your gaze, maybe I would have realised you were always in mine. Maybe I would have realised you were my truth. Maybe you still are. I can only hope I was yours.