Look at that. Went on vacation & had time to write. (Wrote something I'm really ambivalent about but wine not ;) cheers!) Freaking hell...

"I'm paraphrasing here but Neruda was pretty damn accurate..." you pause to lift your dark beer that mirrors your shadowed mood to finish it "loving is short, forgetting is long."

"Becs..."

"Never mind." You say abruptly, cutting Jesse off. "I'll forget about it." You voice and make it solid so he doesn't argue with you. But he lightly sighs and replies with honesty because you've been friends for years and there's trust that's been tested but maintained.

"It's been two years..."

"Okay, I'll think about it some more and logic my way out of this shit." You lift the glass on its rim so it spins and makes a nice distraction in its whirling sound that echos your thoughts.

"Don't overthink."

"Don't repress my talents!" You half joke and it's the half seriousness that's going to hurt you when you're alone. Jesse sighs and seems like he's debating himself. Finally he half shrugs like saying-I can't stop you. You've heard all his sighs, he seems really into them but you dismiss his pointed nonverbals as you order a round of shots.

Concepts are tricky formations when thoughts are slippery. You know puzzle pieces are solid, not fluid.

"Hate to play devil's advocate...but loving doesn't have to be short." As you put the empty glass on the table you open your eyes to glare, halting him.

End of conversation.

The remainder of the night is a content blur with laughter that's sincere while Chloe's resigned to a memory. The downfall is the moment you're home and chugging water she's less of a ghost. Thoughts are filling out and becoming more corporeal with each detail, but you masochistically fall into them. You've learned a couple of things in your life.

When it involves Chloe you know there are too many cons and the pros are dismally short lived. That may be your cynicism but you amusingly doubt it. Yet stupid fucking hope wins over logic. Your finger's hovering over her name in your phone.

And you miss her laugh...how her eyes had a teasing edge almost every minute...how she felt safe. You know you shouldn't think about her anymore or care. She literally asked you to care less and you feel it like it was yesterday-the immediate reaction and wonderment of how? How do I make that work? For months you didn't care and you described it as a switch but it didn't feel natural.

If someone could give you an answer that would save you a lot of trouble. Like cyclical thoughts that play because you're laying in silence of how she said fuck, oh my god and moans were addictive things, separate from her girl next door archetype she deviated from if people learned her.

So you compose scenarios and even heartbreaking ones you know are more realistic because it's so much easier, painful avoidance, because its just less emotional than trying to talk to her. Your screen has gone black by now (a part of you is thankful). Finally you shut it off. You are not a moth to the fucking imitated flame.

You had tried to find if there was a pattern to why you think about her, but the triggers are lost to you. Another unknown because with time you realize there wasn't one. It's been two years and you can go weeks without thinking about her. Caught up in work, projects and daily monotones.

But she sneaks in and you're not surprised since she's always lingered. You're in Europe and a woman looks like she could be Chloe in fifteen years. Its distracting and annoying because you have no doubt she's going to age well and with an edge of refinement.

You're in the car and you wish she was there holding your hand. You know it's far more content driving with one and having the other occupied. Its a simple act with its better purpose of simply connecting (but you may have taken it for granted when it was occurring.)

You're home and sometimes hate your showers, though you truly love them. (You have your best thoughts from the steam and blood flow. You've literally read about it.) Most of your compositions were created as a result but sometimes you have to shake your head as the daydream comes into acute focus. Cause you want her to kiss you like she hasn't seen you in days, like how it was when you were dating but now it's years...and you know she'd look down at you with playful, knowing eyes that you're being uncharacteristically vulnerable and you're Hers.

And you picture her after a long day, hair wavy, small beads of water on her shoulders, coming out of the shower in a towel looking bare, relaxed, gorgeous, no makeup and just her.

(But you're not sure if she was Yours.)

God damn it-it hurts to replay the moments because they actually happened. So you stop, push your palms into your tightly closed eyes and remind yourself actions speak much louder than memories. Thankfully you fall asleep...or more accurately succumb to dreams where she wanders in and out.

You wake an hour later. It's strange and you're tense and not at all what you wanted out of your night but should have expected. The past has weight and you knew it was inevitable your subconscious would pretty much fuck with you. You figure it's not that complicated.

You miss kissing the back of her neck, falling asleep behind her, or half beneath her and her scent, purely her, not influenced by perfume. You miss how warm she was in body and mannerisms. The gentleness and strength that came with every time she picked you up, like it was as simple as her sitting and drinking coffee as she read an old fashioned classic. Hell you even loved that she was a nerd and looked so sexy and cute you couldn't carry on a fucking conversation, missing the chance to contribute in a discussion of one of your favorite books!

And you miss the nuances that composed Chloe into Chloe. Laughter, wit, securities, style, insecurities, demeanor, and a complicated heart that tried to be simpler but...well...

More importantly you're self-aware enough you can admit you haven't felt physically safe with anyone but her.

You miss her heartbeat next to yours. And it's as simple as that. Really. Beautifully simple as that.

(You don't want to admit that's probably the most important.)

Dear fucking god you hate cliches but it's easier said than done.

You could text her and ask her to see you for an overdue conversation. Then the thoughts spiral, off like they've been given a generous dose of speed. She could agree, though you know she wouldn't and won't allow it. An assumption. But there's evidence...you've texted her on her birthday that you wish her well. She's never done the same to you. You hate to admit it and if anyone asked you'd deny it with whatever energy you had to spare, but it burns.

She could come over. You'd stand stiffly at one end of the room -she the other because you both know touching each other can quickly escalate to chaos and feeling overwhelmed. Or just feeling. You'd have to tell her-help yourself to wine-wouldn't want to risk touching hands because you miss them and how they held you, the act of being held, like you weren't something...flawed...for lack of a better word...but how there was something in you worth loving.

You could give her the antique book you've been keeping. She above anyone you know appreciated original Sherlock Holmes.

You could watch a movie, use the silence as a buffer because words can harm/heal and you want to be nice to her. You rather naively agree with something you read-that love can be simple, that the trick to maintaining love is being kind to one another.

Once upon a time you asked her point blank what she wanted and she said you. With ambivalence and regret you don't think that's true. Not now. It may have been then. Yes, another assumption but you feel it's a safe one. And maybe that's all you were, you reason-a fleeting moment together, a blazing shooting star burning out...

But stars have their own ethereal power and it's makes you think of The Little Prince so you recite the line-I'll never know how to prepare my heart.

That's a piece to it. You couldn't cushion the presence, the impact that was Chloe. There was no way you could have game planned and come out unscathed because who the hell does with love, in love, when it's about love? You won't ever have a solid answer. It's partially your own doing. In a way she was right. You hold back, of course out of self-preservation. You said you'd use logic and you more so cling than hold on to it like a glorious safety net. You think there's so much holding and not in the right places. Not where it counts. Where your hearts are inches apart, burrowed into one another, under blankets and winter skies because you're a stupid romantic and you (still want) wanted to stargaze with her.

Second guessing comes naturally even when you know she's worth it. You don't want to but you're resigned. You've reign in your hope. You care and it's probably one sided.

You don't text her. You don't want to read a response that's blunt and hurts (again). You don't want a variation of Beca, we can't. We shouldn't. And its not the type of "we" that you want.

You don't want to be proven right and you don't want to fight. Best case scenario in all perceived outcomes is a set up to reopen wounds, welcome deeper cuts. It seems dramatic so you choose the passive route.

You flip your hope off. Or honestly as close to zero as it will go and refocus-embrace time and how it can lend itself to forgetting. That small part of you hopes she texts, but you don't hold your breath.

Lately I don't care for happy endings, they seem really forced. Thank you for reading. Also Anna Kendrick's autobiography is amusing and like her I cannot for the life of me tell when someone is on drugs! I probably wouldn't know if I was on drugs so...