Catch. Catch. Pop!

We’ll stop talking one day. Maybe the call with drop and we both won’t bother to redial the number. “I’ll catch them another time,” we’ll think as the seconds begin to tick and the minutes begin to form hours and days and weeks and the rest of existence after that.

I’ll think of you here and there, but less and less as the days grow shorter and longer and shorter again and the years move on in the way that they always do whether I’m present for them or not. I’ll see someone who looks like you and ask myself who they remind me of—you. Your faded, foggy face will pop into my head like the way a bubble appears on the surface of the water. I’ll think for a second that I should finally catch you, but then remember that you could have caught me, too.

Pop!

When we stop talking, I hope that’s the way it ends. A sudden pop instead of a drawn-out explosion. I wouldn’t ever be able to stop thinking of you if we imploded like that. I’d see you in every face I’d pass on the street and every year that led me further and further away from you. The short days of December would remind me of the cold words we blew between us and the long days of July would remind me of the love we used to share.

I would hope that every call would be you catching me and would wonder if I should finally catch you.