Jinki should be delighted to see the boy sitting by the bar in a cafe, drinking coffee, hot chocolate, a latte?
Instead, he’s empty like the paper cup by his boots, abandoned on the sidewalk.

Jinki moves closer until the tip of his nose and bare fingers press into the glass.  
He thinks the affection he should feel for this boy will warm his hands, his face,
but he shivers and sees in his reflection his lips are like peeled apples,
revealing the flesh to be dry, long gone of a wet sweetness.

He forgets to bring his gloves, his scarf, and his heart.

The boy opens a magazine on the counter while crossing a leg over his knee.
He ruffles his hair, then places his hand over his mouth.
The action is endearing, sweet, normal, nothing.

Jinki’s known this boy since middle school.
They had sleepovers together, told secrets in dark closets,
chocolate batter from his mother’s baking bowl.

They laughed, they graduated, and they became distant, attending different colleges.

It's been awhile since Jinki last saw him. Maybe two years,
not including those midnight phone calls and few minute meet ups between classes and studying.

He can’t find the small details that make this boy extraordinary
in his hectic schedule, thick text books, and messy footnotes.

Did those details disappear when they outgrew their childhood?
Why can’t he remember?

Apparently, he forgets to bring his brain and his hat. It’s pretty cold out.  

Jinki watches the boy flip a page and tug at his clothes, the blue of his sweater dull and flat,
his skin too pale, his legs too skinny, and his hair too blond.

Jinki thinks of how unnatural the boy appears.
He needs something familiar, natural. He furrows his eyebrows.
Since when did this boy become foreign to him?    

Opening his mouth, Jinki breathes and the glass fogs.
He steps back once he finishes tracing letters onto the surface:

Kibum

Jinki stares at the name,

stares,

stares,

nothing.

Jinki gazes at his own eyes in his reflection,
absent of hidden admiration and tucked away confessions.

He glances at the paper cup before purging his lips.
He rubs his hands together and tucks them into his coat pockets.
He heads for the bus stop and thinks:

Is this how it feels to fall out of love?