I miss you so much my teeth hurt. I miss you even though I know you are the devil in a woman suit. I miss how your long, thick, chestnut hair fell on the pillowcase. I miss the way you wiggled your nose when you were thinking and how you would wrap yourself around a project until you achieved perfection.
I miss listening to you talk in your sleep.
My family and friends didn’t like you much. They thought, still think, that you were aloof, cold and pretty much an uncaring, selfish bitch. Back then I defended you, as good boyfriends do. I was stupid in love with you and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could say that would break the spell.
Being with you was like playing tennis with someone better- I had to up my game. You were smarter, I was more clever, you were a hopeless optimist and I was a calculating realist, I was the better photographer but you were the better artist. Our biggest failing was that we were never a team. We were never able to lash together a constructive working arrangement. There was respect, I guess, but it was only shown grudgingly. You were too concerned with never admitting you were wrong about anything at all and I was too busy resenting how fucking brilliant and beautiful you were.
When you left me you said it was because I wasn’t the one for you. We both know that, at the time, it was just a bullshit excuse because what you really wanted was the freedom to fuck all the pretty little college boys you found. In the long run however you were spot on. We weren’t right for each other; the few times I have seen you since have confirmed that fact. After ten minutes in your company I realize that I don’t find you in the least bit fun to be around. You never make me laugh, your pop-n-fresh optimism is unnerving and your new-found social and environmental conscience, not to mention your British accent, are thin affectations.
Of course I still want to fuck you. Call me shallow if you will but you’re still a slammin’ hottie and I don’t hate you enough not to want to rub soap all over those perfect breasts.
So here I am, 36,000’ over Germany listening to sad songs and thinking about you. Pathetic I know but that’s how it is. Since you left I’ve been with women smarter, better in bed, almost as beautiful and certainly easier to live with but I have never found a replacement. Occasionally you say you want to be my friend but I’ll have none of it. I don’t know how to be friends with you- I don’t want you in my airspace at all. Not, as an impartial observer might think, because you are like concentrated evil to me. Rather it’s because we had so much potential for greatness, not necessarily as a couple but in a partnership, that it pains me to know that we will never be able to work together for ridiculously lofty goals. You have a million ideas but they lack substance; I have the substance but not the drive. Truth be told I guess I need you more than you will ever need me and that’s something I simply can not accept.
Be that as it may I want you to remember one thing: for the record, on that gloriously sunny San Francisco day, on that hillside, you in that sweater and me in my cowboy boots and hat, your hair brown streamers in the wind, on that hillside, on that day, you leaned back into me.
Think of all the trouble it would have saved if you’d have just stayed where you were.
I miss listening to you talk in your sleep.
My family and friends didn’t like you much. They thought, still think, that you were aloof, cold and pretty much an uncaring, selfish bitch. Back then I defended you, as good boyfriends do. I was stupid in love with you and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could say that would break the spell.
Being with you was like playing tennis with someone better- I had to up my game. You were smarter, I was more clever, you were a hopeless optimist and I was a calculating realist, I was the better photographer but you were the better artist. Our biggest failing was that we were never a team. We were never able to lash together a constructive working arrangement. There was respect, I guess, but it was only shown grudgingly. You were too concerned with never admitting you were wrong about anything at all and I was too busy resenting how fucking brilliant and beautiful you were.
When you left me you said it was because I wasn’t the one for you. We both know that, at the time, it was just a bullshit excuse because what you really wanted was the freedom to fuck all the pretty little college boys you found. In the long run however you were spot on. We weren’t right for each other; the few times I have seen you since have confirmed that fact. After ten minutes in your company I realize that I don’t find you in the least bit fun to be around. You never make me laugh, your pop-n-fresh optimism is unnerving and your new-found social and environmental conscience, not to mention your British accent, are thin affectations.
Of course I still want to fuck you. Call me shallow if you will but you’re still a slammin’ hottie and I don’t hate you enough not to want to rub soap all over those perfect breasts.
So here I am, 36,000’ over Germany listening to sad songs and thinking about you. Pathetic I know but that’s how it is. Since you left I’ve been with women smarter, better in bed, almost as beautiful and certainly easier to live with but I have never found a replacement. Occasionally you say you want to be my friend but I’ll have none of it. I don’t know how to be friends with you- I don’t want you in my airspace at all. Not, as an impartial observer might think, because you are like concentrated evil to me. Rather it’s because we had so much potential for greatness, not necessarily as a couple but in a partnership, that it pains me to know that we will never be able to work together for ridiculously lofty goals. You have a million ideas but they lack substance; I have the substance but not the drive. Truth be told I guess I need you more than you will ever need me and that’s something I simply can not accept.
Be that as it may I want you to remember one thing: for the record, on that gloriously sunny San Francisco day, on that hillside, you in that sweater and me in my cowboy boots and hat, your hair brown streamers in the wind, on that hillside, on that day, you leaned back into me.
Think of all the trouble it would have saved if you’d have just stayed where you were.
1 comment:
Hey,
I found this peice very interesting.You rock.I keep a trak of what you add all the time.I have been the one to comment back on your virgin train blog.I should say you have an extremely beautiful sense of potraying your emotions.
Cheers.
Reine
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