I thought maybe I’d write you out of me tonight. That after working eight hours, I’d come home to take my pants off and drink a glass of lemonade and try, for the first time in too long, to make sense of my life through words. I hoped maybe it would ease the sadness I’ve been feeling since we swallowed things sour, turn that sully into something sweet. Suddenly, it wouldn’t be about missing that potential, about the compulsive way we entwined ourselves, and how quickly we ended the rhythm and realized that stupidity. I could focus on the present, all the parts I should be actively inquiring. But I have an ache in my throat, my stomach, my feet, that I’ve been blaming on the heat instead of my anger toward the situation. So instead I have jumbled excuses and apologies on receipt tape because I still don’t have the right way to say something like “I meant it.”

10 months agoJuly 5, 2012