We tried. We talked. We used every bit of happy memory to lead our bare feet to meet in the middle of the wooden bridge. We walked our January afternoon away to retrieve the time lost when we erased our pencil marked faces from each other. We sang in the same tune when our post-college dreams collided. We laughed until our stomachs hurt when we discovered how similar we are.
I don't really understand why it's not working - why I dreaded every promise that escaped your lips, why I felt claustrophobic when you put your arms around me, and why I found myself disillusioned with your words. We did things together, after all. We were past the stage where I go to the nearest comfort zone at the mere glimpse of your shirt sleeves. I was finally facing you.
So why am I hurting again? Is it because I am tired of pumping myself to hope that I will fit the tiny space you allotted for my big curves and deepest crevices? Is it because of the countless times you left me hanging, even when you swore that you are a man of your word? Or is it because we were forcing each other to replicate the way things were, back when you can still afford to send me an original song composition to placate my hormone-driven heartbreak?
We were friends.
