Sometimes, on days like these especially – sun is setting, people speeding home for dinner, music playing, silence and loneliness in this empty room – I see phantoms.
I look at the window, with the odd metal grills functioning as a window-seat, and I see you. Sitting there just like that fateful night, puffing away on the fifth cigarette since you arrived. I should have kissed you that night, or at least given you a hug. I wanted to so badly, one last touch before we went our separate ways.
I look at the desk and I see you looking down at me, a smile tugging at your lips and as you bent down to kiss me, so gently but with such fervour and hunger in your eyes. The muted desk light casting dancing shadows on your brows and pursed lips.