The way things are, you see him only when you have to. If he stops by the
café, you mumble a hello and pretend you're not avoiding him. If you have a
run-in at the library, you very discreetly run to the opposite end of the
room and hide in a corner. And if he sees you, he acts as if he hasn't.
Somehow this is justified. It's your fault and it's his fault and nothing is fixable anymore.
You want to fix these things in life, except the only thing that happens is you keep breaking them over and over. Like a scratched record singing the same three notes on repeat fucks up the vinyl to where there's nothing left. You don't want to do that to him and he doesn't want to do it to you.
So you avoid the broken friendship and leave it at that. Simple.
Hardly.
He smiles sometimes and you're inclined to think it's just for you. The one smile he saved for your benefit reads like a secret invitation that you never accept. Because you're not exactly sure that it's for you and you never want to come off as being too presumptuous.
Presumptuous is for the moron in you, and you've pushed that moron so far down that she's suffocating in your subconscious. This is the same moron that convinced you that you loved him and furthermore made it evident that you were—are—ridiculous for doing so.
It's the cliché that's been over done and you did it. Even for a moron, that takes talent.
The hypocrite in you will argue this until you die because that's the beauty in hypocrisy. When he kisses you—which he doesn't anymore, not really—that's valid proof that the record isn't broken yet. Sometimes he'll wait at the back of the café and grab you on impulse, but that always ends with one of you running away. And sometimes he crawls into your bedroom window late and night and puts his lips to your neck because he knows it makes you restless.
So while he's fucking you, you pretend you're fucking him. Except it's much, much more than that. But he's stopped fucking you, at least lately, and you think it's probably because he's bored.
He says he loves you but that doesn't exactly account for much because he's biting so hard on your shoulder in a last ditch effort to keep from screaming. He sees the marks the next day and looks away, walks away. You stand back and rub the bruise, wondering why it hurts so badly if it's supposed to fade.
All these things have stopped, for the most part. There is the occasional mess when the moron surfaces, but mostly this has become a tattoo of everything miserable, a needle that keeps pressing against your skin without relent.
The way things are, they will never be the same again. He could kiss you and fuck you and bring out both the hypocrite and moron in you simply because he's much more talented than you.
And so you see him only when you have to, which really, is never anymore.
Somehow this is justified. It's your fault and it's his fault and nothing is fixable anymore.
You want to fix these things in life, except the only thing that happens is you keep breaking them over and over. Like a scratched record singing the same three notes on repeat fucks up the vinyl to where there's nothing left. You don't want to do that to him and he doesn't want to do it to you.
So you avoid the broken friendship and leave it at that. Simple.
Hardly.
He smiles sometimes and you're inclined to think it's just for you. The one smile he saved for your benefit reads like a secret invitation that you never accept. Because you're not exactly sure that it's for you and you never want to come off as being too presumptuous.
Presumptuous is for the moron in you, and you've pushed that moron so far down that she's suffocating in your subconscious. This is the same moron that convinced you that you loved him and furthermore made it evident that you were—are—ridiculous for doing so.
It's the cliché that's been over done and you did it. Even for a moron, that takes talent.
The hypocrite in you will argue this until you die because that's the beauty in hypocrisy. When he kisses you—which he doesn't anymore, not really—that's valid proof that the record isn't broken yet. Sometimes he'll wait at the back of the café and grab you on impulse, but that always ends with one of you running away. And sometimes he crawls into your bedroom window late and night and puts his lips to your neck because he knows it makes you restless.
So while he's fucking you, you pretend you're fucking him. Except it's much, much more than that. But he's stopped fucking you, at least lately, and you think it's probably because he's bored.
He says he loves you but that doesn't exactly account for much because he's biting so hard on your shoulder in a last ditch effort to keep from screaming. He sees the marks the next day and looks away, walks away. You stand back and rub the bruise, wondering why it hurts so badly if it's supposed to fade.
All these things have stopped, for the most part. There is the occasional mess when the moron surfaces, but mostly this has become a tattoo of everything miserable, a needle that keeps pressing against your skin without relent.
The way things are, they will never be the same again. He could kiss you and fuck you and bring out both the hypocrite and moron in you simply because he's much more talented than you.
And so you see him only when you have to, which really, is never anymore.