Hidden deep within the crevices of my body is a small sliver of my being I let you dwell. I vowed to never let it grow again, so each year-each day, the section of me that’s you gets smaller. It gets smaller, but never small enough. That little part of you in me attacks every ounce of love that’s left, and congeals the blood around my heart so it’s just useless goo. Like a forgotten Olympian, your presence is still mighty even if I cant remember why I was ever impressed to begin with.
Years from now when our paths cross again, I will feel nothing for you. But, by Fate’s bidding, we will meet again. I will find you somewhere in the countryside of Ireland in a dimly lit and grimy dive bar; it will look like the one we used to dream up and you will be bartending collecting dust with the top shelf liquor. I will sit at the very end of the bar and ask for a whiskey. Our eyes will meet and you will either look surprised or scared and I will stare blankly back as I shoot back my glass and swallow the whole cup in one gulp. When I’m done with my drink, I will return what’s left of you in me, place it on the bar, and walk away, free.
Author’s side note-
I’ve always taken a liking, for an unknown reason, to writing stories in the second person. They are always very short, but they seem to have some kind of therapeutic quality. It’s like writing a letter you’ll never send to that person you’re just SO MAD at. It’s so personal. When I read something in the second person it seems so relatable. So, my hope is somehow you can relate to some of my little experiments into the tense that is the second person.
A Word I Haven't Found Yet 