I called your name.
But there was no answer.
Empty corridors, silence down the line, a vacant stare, a message which will never come. I stand and stare out of the window, in the vain hope that your dark eyes will be staring back, twinkling in the mysterious way that I always adored. And I shake my head, not at you or the barren tarmac below, but at me, for the fact that I allowed you another piece of hope. So I pull on the wool of my cardigan, because the frost between us chills my bones too deeply.
And as I sit at my desk, I wonder if my ghost has ever streaked your mind. I wonder if, in between the cigarettes and the music and distasteful jokes, whether you manage to turn your mind to lips pressed onto cheeks; when green eyes grew as wide as her grin. Or back to sudden statements and black stained pillowcases and her body pressed as far as possible into the wall, far away from you as possible.
But I put down my pen and I remember.
I was never that special to you.