Two Realities

I knew we were doomed from the very beginning.

But we were living in the moment, and I loved every moment.

For me, the past still overlaps the present. It's as if you looked me in the eyes, took me in your arms and told me the sweetest most earnest thing anyone has ever said to me, just a moment ago. In truth, it's only been two days since you decided to stop being that person. I so desperately look for that affection on your face when I look at you, but all that's there now is a kind of forced distance mixed with annoyance and fear.
While you've obviously made up your mind, I'm still living in an apartment unchanged since the last time we were there. The bed is still ruffled the way we left it. The dishes are still in the tray where we left them after washing. The last thing you cooked for me is still in the fridge, all moldy because my landlord decided to turn of the electricity for a while when we were gone. And, every time I switch the lights on and off, the shadows they make remind me of the times you and I stopped at those particular spots, our silhouettes outlined for each other to drink in the sight.

It's like we're living in parallel universes. So close and yet no hope of intersecting.