Traitor.
I felt like a traitor while telling you that I was seeing someone else on that night and therefore could not see you. Things were made clear, but despite all the courage I know that when I wake up in the morning, I will close my eyes again and be frozen in fear.
We lost each other, just as I always said we would. The photographs of you and I are still pinned up, although I no longer glance at them longingly. I knew what we were up against since you first kissed me over a year ago, and now I know how things will slowly start to sink deeper, until all my memories of you are buried. I still love you - I told you that, too. I text messaged it to you, I said it over the phone, I said it to your face, and I even wrote it down in our book, which I hope you preserve and one day show to the person you fall in love with. When I fall in love, I will tell him about you, and Connor, too. I never knew what made you two stand out so much. Still, somehow you each stole a piece of my heart.
I move too quickly. I know that I only recently complained of a lack of -- well, you know. A lack of desire - a lack of caring and an overabundance of solace and self-absorption. Now, I intoxicate myself and gyrate to the music pushing my hair behind my ears, and raising my arms, lend myself to the embrace of strangers. The sweat dripping down my body and falling to the filthy alcohol-stained ground. Utopia.
A possession, a possession of something sweet and possibly foretelling. Should I sway the way suggested, or recognize a purpose for greater good? Love of the truthful, hatred of the grieved. My imperfections never went away, but just as milk left out on the table grows warmer, so does my desire to be less cold. Everything is meant to be.