I went to your job.
A beautiful girl greeted me at the door. A New York City girl with a trendy hairstyle and perfect manicure.
“Dining alone this evening?”
I sat in a corner booth. I watched you fill wine glasses for a couple in love. A cologne scented man and a woman wearing a diamond. I resented them.
I wanted you.
“You’re here…” were the only two words you spoke to me. You took me back to your apartment.
It lasted for hours. In your bed, on your balcony, on your kitchen table.
You took a shower while the rising sun tinted west village rooftops shades of tangerine and magenta. I studied your bookshelf. You read a lot of poetry. I looked in your refrigerator. You still drink too much.
Our history is tangled. I thought if I unravelled in front of you, exposed myself, I could change it all.
I am tired of going through this. Aren’t you?
I left before you finished your shower.
I dedicated all of my time to practice and clients. I obsessed over you. It isn’t about wanting to be close. You and I are never separate. I understand how you felt now.
Last time, I was the one to forget.
It was unsafe to see you again. The waiting is the worst part.