by Richard Mcallister
I stared at the bus, but no face was visible. I knew it was there, behind the tinted panes, a one way mirror.
I imagined I could see those eyes, those atlas spheres of green and blue, the map of your mind projecting wonder onto mine.
I felt like Gatsby looking out across the bay, but I can’t see the green light. All I have is a memory now.
Where we parted there lies a scar, not on my skin but on my soul, it feels adrift, ripped in two. I want it back.
My world is now Monochrome, colour emanating only from those things that remind me of our time, a book, a smell, a laugh.
Now I wait, tracing the map of your skin in my mind, a map that is all at once so hard to read and yet I never err from the path.
It was a dream, turned into a nightmare when I awoke, to find you gone.