Sometimes I think about you, and I'm sorry how we turned out. My stomach turns and I miss you. I miss how we could talk honestly. I hate how the world feels without that now. He's a lot like you, and that hurts. I want a second chance, with different circumstance- but I'm so scared that it's going to be my second same mistake. He breathes me. Does he smell her? It's a melancholy romance at best- we're both scarred and afraid to take that first step. Neither of us are really ready to let go of our past, but I think I am the more willing participant. I'm impatient. I'm impulsive. And this vague impression- your Germaphobia makes me feel like a disease.
Riding in my car- passenger seat and I'm starring out the window- wondering how you could say you love me, and hurt me so bad. I'm your first girlfriend. It's dusk. We're driving over the bridge- we're rounding a bend. Pure horizon. You won't stay with me tonight, you won't stay any night. My stomach turns because I need to make a point. Listen. And he says I'm right. My stomach turns- I didn't want to win. There's a message on my answering machine and it says that no one will ever love me like you do. That message haunts me.
You hold me up. In your phone, you have me as Fem Gem. So I know I'm special to you. We'll meet a few years later, and we'll pretend we're just friends. But then we're going to end up at Old Queens one night, and I'll be playing poker inside. You're going to drink more then you should, and I didn't know you had done cocaine- but your nose is going to bleed. And you're going to walk out into the street. The cars will honk, but they're going to miss you. I'm going to miss you. It was a wet night I think, but I really can't remember the weather's details.
It's a cloudy day, and it seems to fit. It's going to rain in a little. It'll be light, like an April storm is supposed to be. And he's not leaving. I'm not trying to keep him. My back is toward the weather, and I'm facing the dark room. He's standing in front of me and talking about something- but I'm not really paying attention to the words- I'm thinking about why he's still here. The thunder crashes and it's a rustic type of romance. It's the type of storm that makes you feel green.
We're going to end up in a car, except this time I won't be in the passenger seat. For the first few times, it's going to be stormy weather. Always a parking lot. The first night we hung out, he didn't even look me in the eye. His timidity is a surprise. At some point, I let him think of me as an object. Now he doesn't stop touching me. He tells me about the girl who broke his heart, and the fond memories of their conversations. He told me he never met her, and I think that's a remarkable love. His past few years read like the night I saw what I did to you at the bar. It's never going to be the same.
Did you ever notice, that every now and then there is a third party? He said it's because you need that additional person to bounce things off of to keep conversations going. I wonder if everything is an object to him. We never needed a third party. I think I miss that most. But I don't miss the sarcasm. I don't miss the Doom and Gloom.
It's dusk again. We're at that building in New Brunswick, the place you wanted to take 70's themed pictures at- with your wife. John Lennon and Yoko Ono style. You're both giving Peace signs, and her hair is long with one of those thin head bands that go across your forehead. You're telling me a story about a mysterious man you met at a bar. I'm fading in and out of here and there. I see the street, and the green knoll in front of us. I see a smokey bar- and imagine you're drunk and probably high too. It's dark in there. Out here there's more light. The man told you not to let her go. Drunk and profound. My stomach turns, and I'm wondering- if I brought you home- if you'd try to kill me in my sleep. Now I'm fading in and out of that thought. When we hang out anymore, I can't focus on you- you're missing.
This is the last time. You take my hand as you lay belly-down on my couch. We're witnessing the sunrise and you're asking where I've been. You're quiet and contemplative, then you say- "I'm going to reach out my hand again, because I always reach out my hand for you... and will you take it?" So I take it. This isn't the first sunrise we've seen together. You're going to go home. I'm never going to answer your phone calls. I'm never going to answer you texts. I won't go on Instant Messenger anymore. The smartest thing you ever did, was not get a Facebook.
I used to want to be a dancer, and now when I think about dancing, I think about Love and why I'm not in it.
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