syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
Are you fucking drunk again?
It’s always the same with her. Are you stoned again? Where have you been? What are you on?
You ask her, if she is so unsatisfied with you, then why are you here?
Because I’m in love with a fucking junkie.
You start to defend yourself, but the thought of arguing over this yet again makes you feel a little sick. It’s the same story every time. These girls, these troubled minds, these distractions, walk into your life and want to change everything. You were lazy and drunk long before they brought their interruptions, long before they thought they knew you. Still you do care for her, not enough to listen to this shit again, but you do care for her. You walk towards the stereo and pick a cd.
It’s the same shit with you everyday.
Well, yeah you think. It’s the same shit with everyone everyday. You can’t escape who you are. There was a time when you thought she understood this. You tell her none of this and walk to the kitchen for another drink. Looking through the fridge past the water and little coffee drinks she loves so much, to the bottle of red wine, you can almost see the end The end of you and her. Despite your indifference, you feel a terrible sadness at the thought of living alone again. You put the wine back and walk over to her. You plan to take her in your arms and hold her like you used to when you had first met. But once you get there of course it all goes all wrong.
Your breath stinks.
She is wearing that little black dress you bought her at the coast almost two years ago. Jesus Christ you think, has it been that long. Except for her fucking mouth, she looks as beautiful and fragile as the day you two met. Her arms folded over her small breasts, her long black hair resting on her back, her smooth tan skin. You wish it could be the way it used to be.
I miss you, you say to her.
Tell me
I miss the way I use to think about you, about you walking around my place in your underwear, the way you looked sitting in bed, the contrast of your black underwear against all that white. I miss the way the whole world disappeared when we held each other. I miss lying together in the dark, not talking, not fucking, not kissing, just lying there. I miss waking up and just staring at you, thinking of how lucky I am to be staring at you. I miss resting my head on your tits while it snowed all around us. I miss your innocence, the way everything I showed was new and exciting. I miss getting lost in your fucking hair. I miss being completely untouchable in our happiness. I miss all the little things I took for granted. I miss you.
You don’t miss me, you just miss being in love, being infatuated.
Maybe, you tell her. But I liked it best when it was you.
The way she looked right then, standing in the hallway, arms still folded is exactly what you wanted. You want to tell her this but you are scared of her mouth. You want to tell her lots of things but you don’t. You simply make you way back to the fridge and the wine and the end.
Uncorking the bottle you tell her, it’s not just the love I miss, although I do, it’s you I miss, being in love with you. I meant what I said.
You’re drunk and not making any sense.
You give her that, because it’s true. Lately the booze and the drugs have disrupted your thoughts more so than usual. You decide she is worth one last try.
Have a drink with me. Have a drink with me like the way we used too, when we would stay up all night talking, like when we would slowly undress as we got stoned. Have a drink with me then have ten more. Have a drink with me like when we first met. Have a drink with me like that.
I have to work in the morning. I’m going to bed.
As she walks away you can see it all, every hurt feeling, every harsh word, every reason you have to let her go, every night you left her alone, you see it all. As she walks away the first tears begin to run down your cheeks. As she walks away you wipe those tears away with the unsteady hand that holds the bottle.
You go for the mirror and the coke and turn the stereo up past loud. You do a couple of lines and then she is there, standing with her hands on her hips this time.
I told you I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.
Quietly, just barely above a whisper, you tell her to get out.
It’s always the same with her. Are you stoned again? Where have you been? What are you on?
You ask her, if she is so unsatisfied with you, then why are you here?
Because I’m in love with a fucking junkie.
You start to defend yourself, but the thought of arguing over this yet again makes you feel a little sick. It’s the same story every time. These girls, these troubled minds, these distractions, walk into your life and want to change everything. You were lazy and drunk long before they brought their interruptions, long before they thought they knew you. Still you do care for her, not enough to listen to this shit again, but you do care for her. You walk towards the stereo and pick a cd.
It’s the same shit with you everyday.
Well, yeah you think. It’s the same shit with everyone everyday. You can’t escape who you are. There was a time when you thought she understood this. You tell her none of this and walk to the kitchen for another drink. Looking through the fridge past the water and little coffee drinks she loves so much, to the bottle of red wine, you can almost see the end The end of you and her. Despite your indifference, you feel a terrible sadness at the thought of living alone again. You put the wine back and walk over to her. You plan to take her in your arms and hold her like you used to when you had first met. But once you get there of course it all goes all wrong.
Your breath stinks.
She is wearing that little black dress you bought her at the coast almost two years ago. Jesus Christ you think, has it been that long. Except for her fucking mouth, she looks as beautiful and fragile as the day you two met. Her arms folded over her small breasts, her long black hair resting on her back, her smooth tan skin. You wish it could be the way it used to be.
I miss you, you say to her.
Tell me
I miss the way I use to think about you, about you walking around my place in your underwear, the way you looked sitting in bed, the contrast of your black underwear against all that white. I miss the way the whole world disappeared when we held each other. I miss lying together in the dark, not talking, not fucking, not kissing, just lying there. I miss waking up and just staring at you, thinking of how lucky I am to be staring at you. I miss resting my head on your tits while it snowed all around us. I miss your innocence, the way everything I showed was new and exciting. I miss getting lost in your fucking hair. I miss being completely untouchable in our happiness. I miss all the little things I took for granted. I miss you.
You don’t miss me, you just miss being in love, being infatuated.
Maybe, you tell her. But I liked it best when it was you.
The way she looked right then, standing in the hallway, arms still folded is exactly what you wanted. You want to tell her this but you are scared of her mouth. You want to tell her lots of things but you don’t. You simply make you way back to the fridge and the wine and the end.
Uncorking the bottle you tell her, it’s not just the love I miss, although I do, it’s you I miss, being in love with you. I meant what I said.
You’re drunk and not making any sense.
You give her that, because it’s true. Lately the booze and the drugs have disrupted your thoughts more so than usual. You decide she is worth one last try.
Have a drink with me. Have a drink with me like the way we used too, when we would stay up all night talking, like when we would slowly undress as we got stoned. Have a drink with me then have ten more. Have a drink with me like when we first met. Have a drink with me like that.
I have to work in the morning. I’m going to bed.
As she walks away you can see it all, every hurt feeling, every harsh word, every reason you have to let her go, every night you left her alone, you see it all. As she walks away the first tears begin to run down your cheeks. As she walks away you wipe those tears away with the unsteady hand that holds the bottle.
You go for the mirror and the coke and turn the stereo up past loud. You do a couple of lines and then she is there, standing with her hands on her hips this time.
I told you I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.
Quietly, just barely above a whisper, you tell her to get out.
