And every night I still fall asleep in your old, baggy t-shirts and pretend it is all okay. And in the morning, when I wake up you’re still not here.
"It’s been a while, since the night that I first met you. I still got dusty shoes, fear of love, fear of losing you."
It didn’t matter.
The way he said it didn’t matter made it feel so important. It didn’t matter where we met or how we met or why we met, but that we met. It was winter and my lips were dry and I didn’t know if it was from the cold or the way he looked at me.
My tires gripped the road on the way to your house. Down the roads that weren’t littered with streetlights, like where I’m from. There’s less to be afraid of there. The night doesn’t feel so frightening where you’re from. You can see more of the galaxy in the world you live in. The winding roads that took me on the dream-like daze of a drive to your house. Waiting, patiently, to cross the one lane bridge as my stomach finished its journey up to its preferred location in my throat. Tucked securely in my throat.
It didn’t matter.
I used to write you little letters to remind myself that you were real. That you were a real, living, breathing thing that had a life outside of my brain. Sometimes, I wonder if those notes were ever for you as much as they were for me. All of these words I could string together. If they were just to impress you. Please be impressed. If they were ever to try to explain all of the things I felt when I looked into those eyes of yours. If they ever meant as much to you as they meant to me. If they mattered. A quick feel to the top of my earlobe to make sure its all still the same. Its all still the same.
It doesn’t even matter.
And then there was that day when I got home from the very first time, the time when all of this fucking started and I received a smiley on a screen. Just all green and black. A smiley on a monitor that picked up the chair beside it and threw it, hard, across my room. It all happened so quickly. A quarter, a chair, and lots of crying. It was the first time, but it wasn’t the last. There was still more crying. And here I am again. It felt like it meant so much more then, but it probably mattered even less than it does now. And you would say these words to me that would make me feel all kinds of things. Things that I could never adequetely identify by stringing a bunch of letters together. Feelings that I didn’t know I could feel. Feelings that I haven’t felt until, well that day at the bar. what? what? what? It was all I had, I had no words. And you just stood there with that stupid, fucking grin on your face that I wanted so badly to kiss away. Wash it away and get away. From this? With you?
It doesn’t even fucking matter.