Generalized nothings.

Lover, let's not pretend I was ever a romantic. The loss is not a big one, and we wonder if there is ever even a loss.

As I close my eyes and see the grayness of life in front of me -- grayness of boredom maybe for you, but it's dripping with potential for me, an exciting, roaring thundering grayness that could catch you by surprise any moment now -- I don't see those white flashes anymore. In those flashes, I could sometime make out your features. I know her hair, I would claim some day, and I would claim to have fathomed your earrings next. Random bits and pieces of the books you're reading would appear, and your drinks would swirl around. I could almost smell them, taste them. Almost.

As I walked by the station this evening when the exhaustion and tiredness of the day caused me to see gray again, I didn't see you. There was a brief flash, but it was an empty lightening -- it was not the thunderbolt of Indra and Jupiter -- it was the scientific action by which excess charges in the sky ground themselves through the path of least resistance. The poetry was gone, to be replaced by the drabness of everyday flashes.

And when the Chinese girl, dressed in her smart black blazer, short black skirt, knee high black socks and black boots with short silky hair and black scarf, gave me an apathetic look as she walked by, that, that made me forget of you.

I am not a betrayer, for there was never a thing to betray about. No lives were lost, or hearts broken, and secrets were most certainly not improperly disclosed.

One wonders then, if it was not an everyday distraction but a momentous revelation.