thirteen thirteens
I miss people all the time. I miss people so much that I forget what's right in front of me; so much that when they're here, these people I miss, I can barely register it, sometimes, for being overwhelmed with not missing them. It's the product of a nostalgic mind, I assume. I can sit next to you in a bar and I know we had the most interesting, wonderful, much-missed conversation but what I remember is the way my arm sat next to yours so comfortably, like all those times we hadn't seen each other never happened.
Also that you claimed Mad Men was better than Deadwood, but that's a very specific "you" who isn't reading, so whatever.
I went to a show earlier. It was a work thing. I watched bands that I liked, and I spaced out. I thought about people I miss. Some were in my thoughts more than others. A sorta-friend whose email appeared in my inbox, what, six months ago? So random, so out of nowhere, and I'm such a failure I haven't written back. A friend who would never expect I'd call him one of my best emailed last month after we got silly on whiskey and conversation for the first time in seven years or so. I don't want to lose touch again, but I don't want to send a fluff reply, either.
My Australians. My former loves, whom I still love, just differently. My friends in the wrong time zones.
And Chris.
I was going to write all this other stuff but it all comes down to one thing:
It's November 13th, now. Barely. It's not even 1 am. But it's November 13th and it is 13 years and I am heartbroken all over again, every time.
I am not the person I ought to be, not the person I would be if he were still here to call bullshit.
I am not even the person I was four years ago, who wasn't hiding, who was saying things, and messing up, and looking out.
I want to still be that girl. I do, I do, I do. I want to remember how.
Also that you claimed Mad Men was better than Deadwood, but that's a very specific "you" who isn't reading, so whatever.
I went to a show earlier. It was a work thing. I watched bands that I liked, and I spaced out. I thought about people I miss. Some were in my thoughts more than others. A sorta-friend whose email appeared in my inbox, what, six months ago? So random, so out of nowhere, and I'm such a failure I haven't written back. A friend who would never expect I'd call him one of my best emailed last month after we got silly on whiskey and conversation for the first time in seven years or so. I don't want to lose touch again, but I don't want to send a fluff reply, either.
My Australians. My former loves, whom I still love, just differently. My friends in the wrong time zones.
And Chris.
I was going to write all this other stuff but it all comes down to one thing:
It's November 13th, now. Barely. It's not even 1 am. But it's November 13th and it is 13 years and I am heartbroken all over again, every time.
I am not the person I ought to be, not the person I would be if he were still here to call bullshit.
I am not even the person I was four years ago, who wasn't hiding, who was saying things, and messing up, and looking out.
I want to still be that girl. I do, I do, I do. I want to remember how.