Turn around, blue eyes.

I have a recurring dream about you. It’s not quite a nightmare. I want so badly to talk to you about it, to understand it with you, to show you how much I’m hurting. But you’re not there anymore.

You and I are sitting in a laundromat, at midnight, pretending we don’t know each other. It’s dark outside and warm. The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. Here we are, legs apart, facing one another, pretending that we don’t know what each other looks like when we fuck and when we cum. Pretending that we don’t know what each other looks like when we cry. Pretending you never consoled me all night long when you told me it wouldn’t work out. Forgetting the wet cheeks you had when I cried into your chest for hours over how much it hurt that you didn’t want me. Pretending that we didn’t see a little bit of each other that no-one else had before.

What we’re doing in the laundromat is a mystery to me. You’re dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt and I can’t for the life of me consider you looking anymore attractive than you do at this moment. I want so badly to kiss you and run my fingers through your ginger hair, just like I used to do. Just like you used to let me do.

You leave shortly after you tell me “goodbye”. It’s your first and only word. I swallow hard and watch you walk out the door. I’m torn between barricading myself against the frame to stop you from leaving and just watching you go. I muster the courage to call your name only when the door shuts behind you. When I reach it, it doesn’t open. I pound my fists on the glass and scream for you to turn around, but you walk into the darkness with no thought of what you’ve left behind.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” I yell, over and over. You don’t turn. You don’t ever turn.


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