Replay

I’ve been staring at the canvas with the steak of red and brown for the last fifteen minutes. The limelight wraps it in an air of importance I’m unable to give it. It’s the maze that traps me at lunch and, again at midnight when I’ve fluffed the pillow thrice, or anytime between, before or after.

“I’ll be late tonight. Don’t stay up waiting for me.”

“Oh. Okay. Meeting?”

“Yup.”

“Alright. Don’t forget to have dinner.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. You don’t either, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Bye. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

If only I knew that was the last time I’d get the chance to tell you I loved you, perhaps I wound have said it better. Perhaps, I would have said it.

“I’ll be late tonight. Don’t stay up waiting for me.”

“Oh. Okay. Meeting?”

“Yup.”

“Alright. Don’t forget to have dinner.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. You don’t either, okay?”

“I won’t. Someone’s at the door. I’ll speak to you in a bit. Bye!”

“Bye. I love you.”

But canvases of our memories reeking of varnish doesn’t preserve lost chances. And replaying the last call and molding different conversations doesn’t give me another chance to tell you that I love you.

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