i don't miss you and i rarely think of you.

oh, you. i'm sitting in that red chair by the window looking out onto my backyard and remembering when you were sitting in this same chair and i was next to you and i think i was playing with your watch. any excuse to touch you. your watch kept lighting up when i pressed that button on the side of it. 

i was so exasperated with you the next morning when you left your keys in my room and refused to come to get them and then the next time i saw you, when i did give them back, you kept looking right through me. 

oh, you. i saw the 373 bus last night, really late, around midnight and it was trundling off towards coogee, towards your house, except that last night neither you nor i was on it. four pillows for me and none for you, and your bookshelf is full of all of your childhood books and i always wonder where you put all the new ones that you claim to read. i'm almost, almost at the point where i miss you boasting about being a really fast reader, but i'm not quite there yet. 

it's too humid here, we're all breathing in half a lungful of air and half a lungful of turgid, lukewarm water. every time i think of you and that ridiculous bear-man-type hat that you were so excited to wear over there i have to stifle a laugh. 

oh, you.

come home.