Were you holding my hand? I can’t remember. I do remember that the rain never stopped, so we sat under ancient crown moldings while the thunderstorm crashed in and pelted the city with a fury not seen in decades.
I want you because you and I, the thought of you and I. Those letters forming those words, those words sticking together, the jellyfish swell and shrink in my chest when I think about what they mean.
You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero.
I don’t know that any of us really think this time will be different so much as we hope that it is.
You deserve to have high highs again, even if that means experiencing the occasional low.
I am not yet over him. In a way, I never will be. I will wonder if you wear glasses, and when you take them off, if the sight of your eyes makes him melt as they did with me.
Because most people who live or will live on the earth are going to die without hearing your songs, sometimes I am afraid that you don’t believe me when I say I love your music.
“I’m sorry about everything.” You can feel her eyes on you. “I feel like I’ve done nothing but cause trouble.” You feel her hand on yours and you know that she feels comforted that you are beside her.
Since I’m not Facebook friends with your new “boyfriend” I can’t see his profile, but I can see that he went to Vassar, so now I already know what to think. He’s tagged in all of your recent photos, and as soon as I see him I’m thinking, “You picked him over me? Who names their son “Keviin” — it’s not even spelled right.
I have asked my boyfriend why he loves me, and he has asked me the same. And the question rarely feels like a desperate scratching at a hidden truth, more a moment of genuine curiosity that might finally be answered.