Sometimes I think he’s just hiding. That alter-ego that you affectionately call your delinquent past cowering behind the blinding brightness you have become. Occasionally he comes out to play when the coaxing and mellow whispers prove too tempting to dispel. But most of the time, you keep him hidden under chains and shackles, under the weight of your morose, sobriety and numbness.
I take out a beer bottle, it’s cool surface kissing my lips and sending delectable chills of pleasure coursing through my skin. All that’s missing is the celebratory clinking of glass against glass — the sound that differentiates drowning of sorrows from joyous intoxication. But the clinking never comes and neither does the happiness. It’s hidden, muffled alongside the person you strangled within.
I long to see him again, for a chance to at least bid farewell the proper way. I long to see the shadows of his writhing form swaying on the dance floor, the exact motions of his moves already lost in my memory. I long to blow him a kiss, sending with him the part of my past that should have left as companion. The part that now lives in the present, agonised and longing your return.