breathings of the soul.

In the midst of these rifts, these stupid arguments, I often close my eyes and think of you. I conjure up your face in my mind, your image as familiar as if we had only parted ways yesterday. In my imagination, you have on a serious expression, the contemplative look that you always adopt when we stop joking around for a minute and consider our surroundings. Until the momentary peace is broken--perhaps by the awkwardness it has created--and your face breaks into the easy, mischievous grin that I have grown to know and love. And with that, we are once again friends. Boy and girl, nothing more; but that's how we want it to be. There is no hidden meaning, or underlying message, to my hand in yours as we read through one of my books on a dreary bus ride, or my head on your shoulder as we take a much-needed nap. Just comraderie and friendship.
Or was that really all there was to it? At the time it seemed so. We were--we still are--young, simple beings. It made sense that our relationship would reflect the simplicity of the naive, carefree adolescence that defined our existence.
But I suppose it's all in the past. Now we are many miles and, seemingly, several worlds apart. There is no use dwelling on what could have or would have been.
But it's during moments like these--unstable, uncomfortable, unbearable moments like these--that I wish you were here.