Someone approached me on a sunny afternoon and asked me,

"Do you think he still thinks about you? Would you want him to?"

It took me off guard and years of dwelling, thinking, imagining,

and I still can't give just one answer.

I think he doesn't think of me. When he wakes up in the morning,

he brushes his teeth, puts his pants on, kisses his fiancee, and drives to work.

He plays video games and goes out with his friends and calls his sisters every weekend.

He makes a living for himself and he pays his bills and he lives as he always has. Carefree.

Would I want him to think of me? No, not really.

I wouldn't want to remain on his mind after I was glued to his hands for so many years.

I wouldn't want to be thought of as the one who slipped away when I ran for my life.

I wouldn't want to be craved like I was still that same piece of candy he once tasted.

I want him to see me. See what's left of me after nights spent fighting my own body.

Go back in time and see the way I cringed when I saw him walk into the room.

See how I drew back every time he reached for me when he thought he was dishing love.

See how my eyes were never open because if I looked at him it would become too real.

If I lived in a dream world where people got what they wanted, I would shrink him down.

Make him small enough to crawl inside my head and see the interworkings of my brain.

Reverse time and see how my thought patterns changed like a 4-year time lapse.

I would make him feel every time I flinched at the things he said.

No, I wouldn't torment him too long. I would hear him beg to be let go.

I would hear him scream and fight and it would echo through my ears.

Thinking about that fantasy world, I don't know that I'd have the heart to do anything.

He would say no, and I would listen.