(no subject)
I look through other people's posts to find things to download on LimeWire. I should get a bit torent program. Everything I do in some way reminds me of you. Everything. You texted this morning... I didn't respond. I deleted it. And any others in my phone from and to you. I felt good about it. Maybe not good. Maybe I just had to get going immediately so I didn't feel any way about it. Then you texted again tonight. Was I around. I knew what you meant, but I reverted to smart ass mode. It's easier. You slyly implied that maybe I didn't want to talk to you. That's so FRUSTRATING!! Shit, of course I want to talk to you, fuck. All I wanted to do with my life a year ago is lay around talking to you. It's so easy and comforting. And you know the whole back story... Why wouldn't I want to talk to you. Maybe I've gotten weary of the repeat in history. We spend a week tip toeing. Being sure to say nice, clean, unburdened, things that would make up a conversation between two complete strangers. It's nice, it gives my brain somewhere else to be. Then one of us will hint at a memory, or need someone to talk to, or just have a hard time getting to sleep and a little hint of what was so good and warm and right about us will show.
A week later it's not just a hint but a peep show. We do our best at being open and vulnerable, I do anyway. We make a regular thing of it. O, just hadn't talked to you today, thought I'd call. My friends start rolling their eyes every time my phone vibrates. They know it's you. They know that they'll being hearing all about it. You'll pop up in every conversation, somehow, I'll work you in. And they're okay with that. They just know that we have another week or two till you start confusing me. Until I start being hurt or frustrated or annoyed. But I work on it. I maybe even tell you about it. It blows over, never entirely goes away, but the hurdle gets jumped, and we go on. Another week maybe. And I'm missing you so much that I listen to old messages you left on my phone so that I can go to sleep. Anything happens in my life, you're the first one I think about telling. I cry when we get off the phone because the warmth on the battery in my cell just isn't gonna cut it.. I tell you something I think is important, or revealing at least. I get told that if I were more available there's no reason you wouldn't have wanted to know that. It's too bad you didn't know this sooner, if only I didn't keep my cards so close to my chest. And here is where the bawling starts.
It is all my fault. I could still be with this wonderful shimmering loving human being if only I hadn't fucked it up....
Then I get angry. Not rip things down angry, or throw things angry, just make every fault in your being so god damn clear and shove every large jagged one of them down your throat, knocking all your teeth out in the fucking process. But by this point in the conversation you've been talking about yourself so much that I'd probably just be restating things you had already said. In a less absorbed and contrived manner, due to the fact that while I do think about you constantly, you've been doing that very thing since long before I knew you, so you're theories are a bit more cultivated. So, since you're smarter than me, I'm quiet till you ask a question and I start to cry again. I fucking hate crying so I try to come to a resolution, some plan of action, as to avoid future crying. You apologize for upsetting me, in a sweet, sincere, it had to be done sort of way. We resolve to talk later, or maybe we decide not to, or I do and let you in on it. Or maybe, like this last time, you say something along the lines of 'call you later' and I do my best to memorize where I am, how I feel, what I'm wearing, what you sound like, exactly what you say because I'm positive that this is the last time I'll talk to you.And this time I can tell it's different. I'm really not ever going to talk to you. I hate crying that much.
Then your text tonight. I get angry and jumpy. I try to keep it short. You say something pointed, doing your best to hit every button. I guess you don't want to talk to me. Fuck you. But I don't say that. I say something I think will be helpful in your understanding of where I'm at. You don't really pay attention. You say something snide, resentful,trying to blast at my assumptions, unaware that I am not in the mood. Not knowing that on this subject I am an ace. I say the pissy things I'm thinking. And I'm happy about it. Nothing gets resolved. But the conversation ends, and we say goodnight. And I am not crying. And won't. Not over you, not anymore.
Goodnight, Christopher. Sleep well. Good luck.
A week later it's not just a hint but a peep show. We do our best at being open and vulnerable, I do anyway. We make a regular thing of it. O, just hadn't talked to you today, thought I'd call. My friends start rolling their eyes every time my phone vibrates. They know it's you. They know that they'll being hearing all about it. You'll pop up in every conversation, somehow, I'll work you in. And they're okay with that. They just know that we have another week or two till you start confusing me. Until I start being hurt or frustrated or annoyed. But I work on it. I maybe even tell you about it. It blows over, never entirely goes away, but the hurdle gets jumped, and we go on. Another week maybe. And I'm missing you so much that I listen to old messages you left on my phone so that I can go to sleep. Anything happens in my life, you're the first one I think about telling. I cry when we get off the phone because the warmth on the battery in my cell just isn't gonna cut it.. I tell you something I think is important, or revealing at least. I get told that if I were more available there's no reason you wouldn't have wanted to know that. It's too bad you didn't know this sooner, if only I didn't keep my cards so close to my chest. And here is where the bawling starts.
It is all my fault. I could still be with this wonderful shimmering loving human being if only I hadn't fucked it up....
Then I get angry. Not rip things down angry, or throw things angry, just make every fault in your being so god damn clear and shove every large jagged one of them down your throat, knocking all your teeth out in the fucking process. But by this point in the conversation you've been talking about yourself so much that I'd probably just be restating things you had already said. In a less absorbed and contrived manner, due to the fact that while I do think about you constantly, you've been doing that very thing since long before I knew you, so you're theories are a bit more cultivated. So, since you're smarter than me, I'm quiet till you ask a question and I start to cry again. I fucking hate crying so I try to come to a resolution, some plan of action, as to avoid future crying. You apologize for upsetting me, in a sweet, sincere, it had to be done sort of way. We resolve to talk later, or maybe we decide not to, or I do and let you in on it. Or maybe, like this last time, you say something along the lines of 'call you later' and I do my best to memorize where I am, how I feel, what I'm wearing, what you sound like, exactly what you say because I'm positive that this is the last time I'll talk to you.And this time I can tell it's different. I'm really not ever going to talk to you. I hate crying that much.
Then your text tonight. I get angry and jumpy. I try to keep it short. You say something pointed, doing your best to hit every button. I guess you don't want to talk to me. Fuck you. But I don't say that. I say something I think will be helpful in your understanding of where I'm at. You don't really pay attention. You say something snide, resentful,trying to blast at my assumptions, unaware that I am not in the mood. Not knowing that on this subject I am an ace. I say the pissy things I'm thinking. And I'm happy about it. Nothing gets resolved. But the conversation ends, and we say goodnight. And I am not crying. And won't. Not over you, not anymore.
Goodnight, Christopher. Sleep well. Good luck.