I saw you crossing the street back in the city you so eagerly left. A face in the crowd finally after trying so hard to be something better. I followed you down the street at the distance of a stranger in the morning grey. You ignored all the shops that you used to visit. Your shoulders slouched, and something about your manner seemed so defeated. You've taken up smoking, but I'm not surprised by the change--you always had a penchant for vice.

And I do recall some evenings stopping at a bar for a drink after the day and not leaving until closing time, the stumbling home and the stumbling into bed. And that weekend by the sea when you walked so far away on the beach that you became a speck in my view. I called out your name so you ran back. Hand on hand, hand on thigh, lip on lip. You had been so disillusioned with the city, life, and most upsettingly, me.
 
Five blocks out of my way and still I am at your heels. I am nearly at your back when you turn around. You look through me, down to the street corner we just passed. But in the better morning light on this street, this man doesn't resemble you at all. You could be someone else, and you are somewhere else still.