Still Frames

The sun's rays create a lightshow 

as they dance across my face.

For a mere instant, I feel a long-lost warmth 

that I can't help but embrace.

For a moment, I'm not thinking the jumbled thoughts 

that still scatter themselves across the still-frames 

that play inside my head.

I'm not taunted, and for a split second, 

you're not dead and I'm not mourning.

It's days like these, when

eternity peeks through the dull grey clouds,

that I miss you the most.

It provokes an involuntary glimmer of hope

that tricks me into thinking of a summer

when I was simply a footnote 

in someone else's half-assed tall-tale

about the infinity of best friends.

Were we really best friends? It's so surreal now.

In summer, you were someone else entirely.

You were so lively, and I was so ...alive.

It must have been a miscommunication

that left you off at the station, 

crudely eager to say goodbye.  

But then again, so was I.

That very thought catalyzes the moment 

that when reality hits me, 

and it hits me hard, 

every time. 

Every memory.

Every word.

Every line.

I know I can't go back.

That hope is fragmented moments of what once was.

I'll bear being empty,

as I clutch on to sanity's coattails, begging for redemption.

But don't you have those days

where you just miss those days?