a silver plated butter knife.

A typical Sunday night.

We finally had a civilized supper - no arguments, no tears, just silence. for once.

"It's not you." You said.

-

"coffee, just for a while." fine.

Despite all the cut throat tension in the air. We did it.

I sat at our "usual" table, waiting. You were late... again. But this time you noticed my disappointment from the twisted smirk I gave you; you apologized because after all, you're the one who invited me.

Awkward. You stared at the menu, hiding half of your face, as I gave my order to the waiter. the usual please.

I kept my eyes over at the empty table across the room, avoiding the sight of your face - trying to fight the urge to literally stab you with the butter knife.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You said. "About..."

"No. I don't."

Silence fell on us again. Wondering, why the hell am I here again?

All that was running through my head was a quote from Lord of the Rings that you told me once.

Which one?

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life?
How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back?
There are some things that time cannot mend.
Some hurts that go too deep…that have taken hold."

Word to word, I remember all of it.

Back to the story.

One cappuccino light-foam soy milk and double chocolate sprinkles, the usual.

"Look. I called you here because I want to talk about it." You told me, in a demanding voice.

"What's there to talk about?"

"It's not you."

"I know."

I knew it wasn't me. I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew you could never love me. I had so much sorrow inside - you could never reach.

There was nothing you could've done to change anything. What's been done can't be undone. No matter how hard I wish we could have, I knew we couldn't - you were perfect.

Despite all of it, what you've done to me and what you've told me, your face is forever forged in the back of my memories.

It's not you - it's the idea of you.

written by M.