This is stupid.
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This is stupid.
I know I don't write about you.
The trick was that you were actually what I wanted. You may not have been her, but she didn't want to be with me. And you were different, which was good. I liked that you were a brat, and I liked that you tried to keep things simple, so that were good at everything you did. And I liked how you wanted me. It was sometimes tough, but I agreed to more than I ever have because every breath you took I wanted to breathe back to you.
But you have ruined me. There is only so many times you can hurt a person. There is nothing left; I don't even dream of you. This sorrow, it isn't one of absence, it's cleaner than I'm used to. It's not loneliness as I normally know it, it's just sadness. Some part of you, the part that makes the decisions, doesn't want me. That, mixed up with how much we liked being together, cuts deeper than any stupid hollow bullshit that has come before. You were, perhaps, the first that I wanted to have children with, for real.
But I suppose the number always collapses down to zero.
Perfect, and indivisible.
Currently Listening: Young Sin - The Short EP (album d/l)
It hit me, like a wave: your presence. I knew in that instant - whatever else would happen that night - I needed to talk to you. I didn't even shift through everything I was perceiving right away, I just dropped myself clean into the conversation. Actions like that take guts, it is dangerous to go alone, but I must admit the impulse certainly outweighed the nervousness and, from that perspective, I suppose it was easy. I didn't dwell on how you looked back at me, a sultry mix of interest and uncertainty that my mind's teeth clung to like a starving animal, but just pushed forward with bravado and hubris without considering too much your reactions. My ego, but not my arrogance, filled the room like a swell upon the ocean, and I pontificated like I was years younger and not so sorrow-wrought. And in response, you poked and prodded, and asked and mocked. And struck me. Oh fuck, you hit me so many times. My reason clung to my mind like a sailor upon the rigging at storm as every inch of my skin screamed out for yours.
Awkward and playful - pale soft skin pulled over a collection of diminutive bones - your bird-like mannerisms spoke the language I wanted to hear. You wriggled into my lap and spilled wine on me and you, and fed me poor red vintage that sat in my stomach like black ichor. I was surprisingly composed, and fought back with every ounce that I had. But upon the lengths of your limbs played a bowed melody that bewitched me into a sway like reeded snake charmers of long lost civilizations.
Eventually, you curled up on her bed, and I decided to leave as I was unsure how much I or you would let or want me to transgress. So I pulled on my coat, and said my goodbyes to you. But I didn't want to leave without knowing what your thin lips felt like, we had come too close too many times and (even though I did leave) I wanted you with a cold fierceness that would have burnt like chemical ice. Everything about you sings sweet promises of satisfaction, and your lips certainly did not leave those promises unfinished. I wished you luck, and tried to tell you to find me. Unrelenting to the last, even through wetted lips and the blearyness of too much poor wine, you told me to find you.
I do not know. You are young, so very young, and I might understand your dance too well. And while you are young, you wish to be perceived otherwise because of the weight of your past. In this we are alike, I'm certain I was no different, and might be why the steps you take are so familiar. I will not lie, you remind me so very much of others I have known, but as I get older I feel this will probably become more common as a matter of definition.
I do not know. The reason I wanted you to find me is because I wanted you to come back later, perhaps in few years. Timing, as you said, is so much, and in this you are completely right.
I do not know.
It is sometimes eerie how much you two look alike. In some ways, I think you burned an ideal into my mind that I'm constantly searching for in other people. This ideal isn't you, but instead some idealized version of you. Your successors outdo you, love. It is as it should be.
These words are still coins dropped down a well, solitarily drowning together.
Time slowly drifts forward, carrying everyone along its slow currents. The lonely become the coupled once again, leaders rise and fall, and people get inexorably older if not better.
I was so turned around by your coupling. It isn't right. I am not into you, I am into some superior version of you, that is stronger and less hidden. I want you to be awkward and perfect and I want to fuck your brains out. This you doesn't exist, and she may never. So why am I so upset? I didn't lose you, I didn't chase you, and I don't even want the real you. Maybe you're just an excuse, something for my sorrow to wrap around. That is probably it.
I'm running again. Tired, shifting in my sleep, rising too early due to anxiousness. It seems even my subconscious loathes the idea of you: of you I don't even dream. It is, perhaps, the waking me that dwells too much on us. Perhaps my dreams are right; if only I could convince my mind to forget you like my dreams have.
I might not dream of you anymore, but my heart still turns in knots for you.
I am so very alone.
.