A Joke

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
I faintly recall the moments I thought we were all there was. There was the universe, me and you. But that was the extend of it.

Submitted: March 20, 2009

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Submitted: March 20, 2009

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Could it be a joke?

Let it be a joke.

 

When you take your arms, away from me. They used to drape around my chest, used to warm my senses with their muscular form.

 

Like a deer that can’t bear without its water, I feel when you shift your legs, lift your feet as they, one by one, step closer to the threshold.

 

A warm breeze of the summer wind tickles my arms when the hard wooden door opens ajar. I somehow, shiver. My teeth are tightly pressed together, my hands forming an impervious knuckle.

 

I faintly recall the moments I thought we were all there was. There was the universe, me and you. But that was the extend of it.

 

In what seems to be forever, you turn your head and give me a last look before you walk away. Lips pressed in a straight line, jaw clenched. Contrary to popular belief, it’s often misunderstood how men can express their feelings. But I see right through.

 

You open the door to your eyes, let me experience the emotions of your soul, before you rebuild the walls around your heart, and vanish away back in your shell. I securely lock my eyes with yours, but your pose doesn’t break.

 

I sift through the possibilities. Why this has to happen.

 

“It doesn’t matter.” I hear, your voice cutting through the silence as if silence was hurt, broken by the toll of the moment. “There’s nothing I can-” Your voice trails off, its sound getting strangled in the space between us. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I miss you.” I want to say. But I can’t miss you. You’re standing right in front of me. Your scent, I sniff. Your air, I breathe. Your picture, I see. But somehow I don’t see you. I see a man, lost in his own existence. I see a boy, clueless how to balance his life span. “I concur.” I hear myself saying, my head on its own accord nodding.

 

I almost fail to distinguish the scene of your hand reaching out for the doorknob. A single sound, the crack of a door, your feet rising over the doorstep.

 

Is it a joke?

 

Because if you want, I’ll laugh.


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