Sarah. She would have seen the first time I held your hand (or you held mine).
Until now, I still don’t know who did it first.
Just one mistake. We knew it was a mistake. Looking back, I loved every second of it.
Then I wondered how much pain it took to pay for one night of bliss, of youth, of just doing what your heart tells you.
Sarah, dear Sarah. She would have witnessed all those nights I spent trying to forget you.
Sitting in the same table with an empty seat, and at times facing you without really looking into your eyes.
Because I could not.
Shit talking all night with friends whose presence I could barely feel whenever you’re there–
causing the place to shrink into one space. That which separates you from me.
It’s good to be back here. Because I can be here again.
Because it’s no more painful, it’s no longer special, because it’s just okay.
There’s this guy holding a guitar, strumming, singing like crazy from the table next to ours.
There’s something in “Mariposa” so familiar to every relationship that I had.
Oh how we put so much meaning in a song. How we put so much in a person. In a relationship. In love.
But I can’t look back. I can’t even look at the person who owns the voice.
I’m not sure if I am hearing his or yours.
But somehow I have learned to forget. Somehow I feel comfort in not remembering your voice.
Because I would only visit the place but I couldn’t be in it anymore. I can’t stay here for long.
So I got up and left. I didn’t look at him. I passed by him as he sings
an unfamiliar song.
I’m quite sure it is, an unfamiliar song.