A STORY FOR ANOTHER DAY.

We will meet five years later, at a coffee shop. I dont know the exact one, I haven't visioned that yet.
I will be sitted at a table adjacent to the window, deeply engaged with my book. You will walk in, I wouldn't notice, even when you come by my table and ask if you could join me. Astonished, I would nod, still trying to figure out how you found me.

"Who are you reading?" You would start.
"Isabel Cabrera."
I would wonder why your face hasn't aged. Why until then, your eyes still were enough to make everything empty in my mind.
I would silently ask myself if you still have my heart as a gift.
I would want to feel your hands and study if your arms have become worked down to the bone.
I would ask if life is treating you bad, treating you well. If you still remembered the person I once was to you.
I would want to bring you home with me. Make pancakes and caramel tea on Sunday mornings.
I would pass my mondays imagining your reaction upon opening your lunch box to find a note scribbled in bad handwritting, "I love you more."
And up until then, you would still be the only one who would be able to stitch my seams together and yet have the power to tear them apart.
I would die a million deaths to defend your happiness. And I would not need tomorrow to know that I love you forever.

But now, I am desperately plotting this against a life that has become mundane. All the days have just blurred into one long life I've forgotten to live.
My skin is covered in landmarks of losses and all I wish for is to sink deeper into the quick sand hoping to appear faceless.