There are two people who share their deepest secrets, promise each other everything and then, part ways as if it was just another deal. They can even spot each other at gatherings, public places, exchange cordial pleasantries, jive on and the later calmly tell their friends how they had a scene with them. They’re the people who have moved on – they don’t get lost in pensive wanderings of the mind during busy weekdays at work, they don’t feel the hollow vacuum trying inside the rib cage that’s trying to suck the meaning out of everything – their eyes still have the shine, their shirts ironed, shoes shining and hearts pumping with the excitement of being gratified again, over and over. They’re alright BUT, it’s not them we’re going to talk about. It’s the rest, just a handful, who feel everything mentioned above and can’t do much about it – let’s consider them. Because for some, it’s not all about the bigger better deal. It can’t be analogized to losing a job and landing a better package – no, for them it something far away from the materialistic approach. Nothing else compares to the dreams once shared, the familiarity, the time, the essence and it was never something replaceable. It was something they never owned but were promised it was theirs in a world where nothing lasts forever. A gullible heart, a sensitive soul couldn’t help but fall for the promise. Does it mean they’d never be promised again by someone else? No, of course not but it was not about filling the void with whatever comes their way. Every puzzle has a block that fits perfectly – you lose that block and you just have to play with that one hole in the picture.

Because for some a closure isn’t worth peanuts.

What good could a closure do when their heart is doomed to shatter. Everything that’s going to be discussed in that ultimate rendezvous is already known – just not said. They believe there’s nothing you could say that they don’t already know.

They knew about their vices, their shortcomings, their mental blockages – they knew about the impracticality, about the others involved and also the fact that you had one foot out of the door since a long time now. They were working on things or, at least, that’s what they’d like to believe and your sugar-coated way of putting it that their efforts aren’t enough anymore just leaves them bitter and resentful.

Because for some, the wait becomes the sweetest addiction.

It cuts like a knife in the beginning and never really ceases to feel that way, at least in every solitary moment, now and then. However, they almost start enjoying the razor’s edge – as if a subtle masochism passively protests the untimely death of innocence. They wait for a day when the tables turn – not with a vengeance in heart, no, but with a throbbing fondness they wait, like a stone.

They wait where they were left with moss and rust gathering all over – they don’t clean up lest your traces are lost forever. They wait in silence, in the dark, on the couch they sit, the one where you two played all afternoon, touching each other’s fingertips.