To think of you now is to remember what we wanted to be. Where we wanted to be. How we were together. Before we left, before you went to the great city and I did not. Before life took us. And you were what you wanted to be and I was where I wanted to be and we were not together.
You were here in the metropolis, the beating heart of a place neither of us was born to. And I was here and there and here again. And you were where you wanted to be and I was what I wanted to be. Neither of us together. Neither of us writers of letters, senders of email. We spent the years text free.
Now back again, washed up on the national day. Driving past cars festooned with flags, the taxi driver hears my accent, tells me I must feel at home. A home far away. Back where we were together. When we knew what we wanted and where we wanted to get it.
Each time I come here I look for you. I look for you on the concourses. I look for you in the parks, the public squares. I listen to the river of voices and hope I can pick out yours from among them. But I do not hear you and I do not see you. Here where I talk when I should not, stumble when I should walk, attempt conversation with strangers.
I keep your memory fresh upon my tongue. This memory I have kept. Where I am something like the best of me.
I stop in front of churches, in the entrances of museums, great office ziggurats. Waiting for the doors to open. Waiting, after all these years. Still hoping to catch a glimpse of you.