Lookalike

By Diya Singh

My jaw tenses a bit at the sight of him -

My palms subconsciously get clammy and some semblance of sadness creeps into my heart 

Remember me? It asks.

I nod sheepishly and stifle the hurt down my throat 

And listen loosely to the thread of neat, brisk conversation.

As though by magic - all the sounds around us drown themselves out 

And now we’re suspended in the moment;

Only you and I are here. 

Did I say you?

I meant him. Him and I. 

You both look so alike that my brain often misfires - 

Shows me the mirage of your oasis

After three long years of a drought. 

Am I the sinner, then? For quenching my thirst?

For finding solace in the arms of a kinder you?

“Are you listening?” 

I nod - nimble and keen, and I proceed to drink up his stream of words - gulping my guilt away. 

And God it’s blinding!

By what sweet curse did God make him to be your very likeness?

I ponder over the consequence of this small meeting

As I drink in the wavering sight of you - 

The same piercing eyes, 

The viking-like silhouette of your jaw, 

And the smile you never did begrudge me. 

Some things about him stab at me and remind me he isn’t you - 

His honey-brown eyes, his roman nose 

And a faint glimmer of love that I never saw in your irises. 

So I sit in this dull, british pub sipping a drink I don’t care for, 

Watching this sweet conduit of a man shapeshift before my very eyes into the only man

Who hurt me enough to be remembered so zealously and hauntingly. 

And at the end of the night - 

When he tells me how beautiful I looked

My throat gets itchy and dry and no sound comes out, 

I can only muster up a feeble smile in response 

As though to say “I’d love to see you again”.

I’d love to see 

You 

Again. 

Isn’t that why I’m here? 

To see you… again?

To see what it might have looked like if you had loved me too?

And it’s so desperately uncanny 

To look into his eyes

To try to make-believe that they’re your eyes I’m looking into, 

And find - 

To my surprise -

That they’re looking back at me with all the softness and warmth they can muster up, 

And not the pity and hatred I once saw in yours. 

How strange it is to love a better you. 

By Diya Singh