I left. I went away, right in the heat of the moment. But isn't that the life I've chosen, always leaving before I begin.

This is important. No matter what I say here, I wouldn't have stayed and I won't stay now.

I heard upon my return you had found someone and she does look beautiful with you, her dark hair always pulled back from her intense eyes and pursed lips, never smiling, never frowning, almost in a trance like this world is well below her.
I would have liked to try you out.
When we were talking the other night, those lips, a pale maroon that contrast sharply with your lack of color, were moving to the tune of films and cigarettes, artists and the untimely darkness that consumes them and most likely us one day. You're eyes like the inside of an avocado, showed the opposition of your ego. I wonder would she make the same observation.
I had left just for a short time and you alluded me.

I sat at Lodo's with my knees propped up against the wooden bar, staring into the golden red lampshades. The smoke from my mouth hung there, underneath the warm rays of phosphorus. What if I hadn't left, playing for two weeks in Europe? Would things be different? Probably but only towards their demise.
Every cold-blooded creature needs warmth every now and then, but a snake can scorch if subjected to the sun for too long.

She sat in the bar and read. Read in a bar and drank Mountain Dew. She was a little under halfway through the book, and she lingered on pages trying to concentrate with the noise. A bar on Thursday with half price drink specials is not the place to read and I'm sure she didn't care about the words but more about her perception. But I suppose that's why I keep smoking. I have an idea of myself as the artist, sitting in a seedy apartment building throwing words together while pacing with rum in one hand and a smoke in the other. We’ve talked about this. Mountain Dew just doesn't thrash me into a new world.

I dislike that you talk about her every time I'm around. She has a beautiful voice and can sing your songs. I long to sing them. I'd try if you'd let me but that would probably only make you cringe. I like that you’re talking to me and wouldn’t mind talking about her if only she wasn’t sleeping in your bed or you in hers.
You said before you left, “I hope your day gets better.” I'd cut out my tongue to tell you why it's bad and I'd cut out hers for you to make it better. I know she's lovely but I hate that you might love her. I need to get away. This illusion is driving me mad.

With this ring I wed thee

He's free. And emotionally exhausted. And lazy. Distant. Preoccupied. And all the other adjectives that come with breaking someone's heart.

He wasn't wearing the gold band this weekend. Why then tonight? I thought about asking but it didn't seem like my business, although he's the one that pushed his business on me.

I hope he made the right decision... I'm unrealistically pessimistic about marriage and wanted him to get a second opinion.

I'm not sure why he decided this and why I'm part of it. I don't want either. I think it's because he got married to young. I think it's because he saw me as the person he wants to be. And I indulged. But he told me he wasn't happy.

Although I will lead and love the life of a traveler, impulsive and indulgent, should I not have told him what sometimes lurks underneath. Have I sub-consciously lied?

He has dismantled a home and made it merely an empty house, where once a woman slept, but now only an insecure, bewildered girl.




"I just realized how empty this place will be without all my stuff... Kinda sad. Shit, even the bed is mine... But I'll leave that I think."

I know he loves her. You have to love family and once your married that's family. He'll leave the bed.

He won't kiss me.

I won't kiss him.
I want something different out of this, this strangely unique creature that made the first move when I wasn't thinking about any move at all. It wasn't lechery, but something more profound and refined. I can't help but love his poetry.
"When you walked me out the light ran across your face, just across your eyes. It was startingly complimentary."

We were driving and my ex-boyfriend got brought up. For some reason, I thought about the first time we hung out alone.
I drove him home after a night of severe inebriation and he changed my radio presets so every station number was in order from lowest to highest. It was merely an innocent thought of how I came to date him.
And then I thought about how the day after I texted him explaining just how much I hated it because I kept pushing the wrong buttons. I texted him. I made the first move. I always do and I'm always bitter about it.
I brought it up that I had done so and he said he would have, but I was and am untrusting. If I meant anything... He was too slow.

I almost told this story. I almost gave the secret away, but then I realized he would then be obligated. And I know when he reads this and it finally happens I'll regret telling him 'I'm writing about you...,' because this will only be another way I beguiled the situation. There's really no hope now; I have acted first.

I should focus on me and love, or some sadistic aloof version, will find me when I'm not prepared, entangled in hectic organization, in overpowering ambition, in constant inconstance. Isn't that what they say? After dating many a gentlemen, every hand gets closer to what I want. He made it close, so very close, but I'm frightened that my brashness has done it in.

I will kiss him and be bitter. Or he will kiss me and the latter remains.