The Summer

Summer time and the livin' ain't easy.
Mindless work and no one to keep me even the slightest bit lukewarm at night.

Late sometimes I'll read what passes for our early correspondence. Filled with anger, flirtation, and passion just like it should be-never mind that in this age of technology it's an Instantaneous Message and not a well thought out letter.

Then I'll cry cry cry myself to sleep (things happen in threes right now, don't ask me why they just do.) All of it makes me shiver still, the conversations and the early fights. The things I told you about him...the things I felt when I wrote of my despair and broken heart. Wish sometimes I never told you those things, because then I wouldn't have to read them now. And then I cry some more, thinking of wasted time and thought and emotion when you were right there, right there, right there.

Summer smells like stale tears on a pillow case and the last bit of cologne that clings to fabric.
This is supposed to be tragic and perfect, two lovers ripped apart by cruel fate and all of that. But, sometimes, I wonder if it's really you that I miss. That's when I'll begin dangerous contemplation, thinking and comparing and thinking again. Those early conversations we had seemed so fun and giddy and passionate. Now it's silence after long silence, until the whole world seems muted and I want to scream just to know that I still can. And that's when I go back and read other conversations with other people, and then the shaking starts and the tears and the pillow is my only anchor to reality. Thinking and crying and thinking again.

It's not fair. I know. I'm not fair. I'm selfish and greedy and jealous and unreasonable and you don't deserve any of it. I told you to run once, to leave while you still could. You wouldn't. You, like any honorable perfect gentleman, wouldn't let me go that easy.

You deserve better. But hey, I warned you.

Summer.