Thursday, February 17, 2005



I didn't want to be there, anyway. Come to think of it, I didn't really want to be anywhere. Something is broken, all messed up - something inside me. I'm sitting in the doorway of an antique shop, warming my hands on a paper cup of coffee, reading Wilde's Prison Writings. I take breaks every now and then to watch the rain fall on the street outside. A winter rain. Sometimes listening isn't enough.


Tomorrow I'll call, and everything will be okay. If not tomorrow, then the next day, certainly. Fights from the past are never wholly remembered, and I've no reason to believe this one - already in the past - will be any different. Just words, right? Can our love grow so cold, so quickly as the coffee I hold in my hand? Rain soaks into my sneakers, through my socks. Chilled.


I'm trying to cram bitterness in between anguish and regret, but it just won't go - too many letters I guess. You move amongst love these days, all wrapped up in that tight little clique, comfortable, safe, and warm. Occasionally, you try to imagine what I'd be up to right now. My guess is that you have any number of ideas, all of which could not be further from the truth. The words I'm reading tell me that it's not your fault, that I must search within myself for answers - but authors aren't always right.


A new day, a new cup of coffee. The cute barrista smiles at me from behind the counter, and I think for a second that maybe she's my rebound. But it's too soon, and I retreat to the back of the café with a newspaper. I admonish myself in private: It's much too soon to screw up yet another relationship, another life.


If you come back, I'll be good.
Just like the old days,
We'll laugh and love.


A void


We are no more.

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