(the cliche is moth to a flame)

I walked past you three times amongst the hemp-scented, green-nosed chaos. I enjoyed not acknowledging you, letting my eyes pass over you time and time again, in a doorway or through a mirrored window, like I wasn't registering your face - as if I flipped it down long ago on my mental Guess Who board. I know you're used to people falling over themselves in your presence, their necks craning upwards and teeth bared in desperate grimaces, so keen to be seen. Yearning for your consideration, a moment of conversation and a clap on the shoulder. Like the wide-eyed amateur bakers who crave a calloused handshake from the bread lord. You have that easy energy as you speak, charisma pouring from your dark eyes and bright sparkling abundance in your lazy smile. I often fall for it, I am drawn in like the cliche to the cliche, but I ignored it completely this time. 

I did see you, though. In side profile, your hair just the way I liked it looking all that time ago, before the wilderness took over. In full view, leaning out to onlookers, so tall, tempting them. And then of course, with your current squeeze, your small doe-eyed anchor in the Storm, her crown of buttercups perfectly placed under your chin so you can call upon the summer sunshine - your face alight with excitement and wonder as she spoke to you. 

I remember another, just like her, who told me one fateful night as we sat under the smoke together to be careful, and not to go home with you. Not to give any of my energy to you. She made the gesture against her neck, pleading at me silently with wise and weary eyes that didn't make sense in the moment, because she was significantly younger than me. 

I remind myself how desperate I was to wash you out, to throw you in the machine the morning after and scrub your sticky gin bubble kisses off my coffee table. I tell myself never again. But I can't deny, I still hold that melancholy hiccup in my chest when I see the way you look at the woman who isn't me. I still wish you'd light up seeing yourself reflected in my eyes, as I stand beneath you in an innocent crown of flowers and a drink you made me in my hands. 

*

Thank you for reading.

G. x