I think I’ve been here before.

Déjà vu.
Remembering something that you once lived through in some alternate universe.
There’s no substance to it. You’re just sitting there having a conversation with someone, and all of the sudden you have the funky feeling that you’re throwing up words you’ve already regurgitated once before. You wonder how it’s even happening while the words are spilling out, but you keep on talking with this eery nagging in your head.

You are my opposite of déjà vu. 

For two and a half months I roamed the streets of our city with you, looking at you through tinted glasses. Because what was the point in the hopeless hoping that had never gotten me anywhere with you before.
Then one day we were playing air hockey in an arcade. I looked up and you were smiling at me. It was like the UV rays had seeped past my tint, and you exploded before me like a solar flare.
Every vein pushing past your skin across your forearms and wrist looked like it was stretching out for me; I became uneasily aware of the way your shirt hung on your shoulders, around your v-shaped torso, tugged down on your collar bones. Once this epiphany–this euphoria–occurred, the rest came in waves.

So one day I sat across a table from you in a study room in Maulding. When I looked up, I had my “opposite-of-déjà-vu” moment:
I longed for the day in the distant future in which I could lounge at a cheap kitchen table across from you in a cheap apartment, drinking a strong cup of coffee, with the doors to our cheap balcony swinging wide open, letting the morning noise of the city flood in; my knees would bend beneath me in my chair, and I’d get to watch you; I’d get to sip my coffee, watch your eyes, and write down every inkling I had of you sitting across from me. Morning elegance.
But in that moment, I pretended. And I found the purest elegance in watching you run your lanky fingers through your tired hair while you played with French words across from me.

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