Waiting

You held my hand when we walked through Seattle Center drunk, and people looked at us like we were in love. I hadn’t seen you in months and wanted to keep it that way, it’s not me who wanted “closure”. I made my own, after months of wanting to tear my skin off everytime you looked at me.
And you looked at me then and waited for my response, but I didn’t dare glance in your direction.
Somehow I made my way through your scars with my words and my Dior and left my footprints behind. You tell me that you can’t forget me, and that makes the sadist in me pleased. On some level it amazes me still that you even bother to remember me.
We walked what seems like miles, me in my heels, and listened to a hobo play the sax on the corner of Queen Anne and Roy. You don’t belong in this time in history.
It’s 1AM and pouring outside, not Seattle rain, but I run down the empty street in my dress and bare feet and you follow me, yelling for me to wait up. I don’t make promises, especially to someone that has never kept one in their whole lives, but I tell you that I’ll find you again in a different life when we are both cats.

You don’t know what that means, but I do. And suddenly I’m alone in my dark bed listening to Sigur Ros, waiting. Waiting.