We all have our habits.
Sometimes it’s an addiction;
sometimes a person.

I think there will always be a trace
of you in this bar
found in the rainbow squiggles
added to many of the surfaces,
from the cornhole boards
to decorated coasters taped to the wall,
and most prominently, a bar stool
with all of our names
worked into the beautiful madness of your mind.

I remember sitting in notebooks and poems
on the patio with you, that bar stool,
and your chameleon markers.
We processed life in random lines,
occasionally breaking silence
when art was not enough.
My oppressive new job, your possessive boyfriend.
Those days when it was just us
were in curious ways the best
because you would allow yourself to cry.

You were at war.
I committed myself
to marching beside you
to helping you shatter his influence.

I remember your birthday.
When I tell that story to others,
I’m blindsided by the *chocolate* you shared,
the sudden hour-long tingling stare into the parking lot,
but truthfully,
I knew exactly what you had offered. 
Deep down, I recognize
such an extreme break in character
could only have been facilitated by you.

I had hoped
we would do that more.
Nights to sit and vibe.
There was potential.

No one else here knows about these feelings,
though I’ve often pondered sharing
then since and now. 
We all knew where you were at.
I was content letting you rediscover yourself
free of him.

Problem was
you lost every sense of you were when you were with him
which made it terrifying to try to be anything without him
including yourself.

Months since I last saw you
I guess no news is good news.
If you’re happy and content
then I hope the miracle never spoils.

But I may always think about you, wondering
should I have revealed more of myself to you?
every time my eyes fall
upon that doodled-on barstool.