I fucking treasure this sadness. I treasure that I wake up hugging my pillow and in my half dreams I thought it was you. But your hair was just the cat’s tail. I have seriously wept unconscious tears into my cat’s tail– that is a Shakespearean level of sadness in today’s world. If I had something that smelled like you I would smell it. But I don’t. Not even my sheets. The night I realized you were gone I made a pork roast and farted like Vesuvius for hours and hours in my sleep. I tried to sniff the spot where you slept and… it was a mistake.
I fucking treasure this. Remembering your hair. Your kiss. God damn, you were a great kisser. Gentle. Every little motherfucking thing, things too corny to type. I relish missing them. This pain. The way a leper relishes burning his hand on a candle. I can still feel something. This particular thing, desiring somebody, wanting them to be around, and them wanting to be around. Even if relationships like this, between stunted people, people who fuck strangers in toilet stalls– relationships for us are like milk left on the counter on a hot day. But it’s nice to know that it can exist.
There will be more of you but there will not be another one of you. You fucking weirdo, with your stupid plan to get a job at (REDACTED corporation) by beguiling the seventeen year old son of the owner, your weird English major’s obsession with whether writing is “confessional–” I don’t know dude, I fuck chicks or don’t and then make my fingers move around on a computer the next day, seriously. I have no plan here. So many absurdities about you. Your weird nervousness. Your fake laughing at my jokes to please me but then your constant ribbing about my small dick. Were you “gaming” me? Come on, fool. If you were gaming me then that wasn’t the part that worked. But maybe it was. Maybe I’m doing the walk of shame and it “just happened.”
Well, good job. You “went direct,” but you also “negged;” you “built comfort,” you were clearly “preselected,” you created a “jealousy plotline,” you “came from an abundance mentality,” you “demonstrated higher value,” you used “push-pull” and etc. etc. etc. Now you are gonna “FTOM.” At least, finally, someone cracked the god damn code. Some weird college girl out of fucking Long Beach, who knew. But thank you. Like the man says, you left me better than you found me.