"Do you ever miss me?", she asked, right before taking her lipstick-stained cigarette to her rose embalmed lips.
"Do you want the truth, or the answer I tell everyone else when they ask that question?"
She followed me out onto that porch earlier, from that loud room, filled with loud music and loud smoke. Before this night I hadn't seen or heard from her in months, but I knew seeing her again was inevitable. Hell, we had the same friends, I lived with one of them for God's sake.
Her eyes avoided mine, but I wouldn't look away until she answered. I hoped so badly she would want the lie, so I could tell her no and she could think I overcame what she did to me, that I overcame coming home to that empty room where she was supposed to be. I didn't want to have to tell her that I miss her more and more with every passing moment, that I can't get her out of my head no matter how many of my funny smelling cigarettes I smoke down to a nub and how many sleepless nights I have that I don't tell anyone about. I couldn't tell her that I still search at the bottom of every bottle for her, only to find that it's dry and barren. Her eyes finally meet mine.
She says, "I was never good with choices"
"Well I was never good with a lot of things"
I see the pain in her eyes, which dart down again because she knows exactly what I'm talking about. But I know I'd see even more pain, and water in those eyes if I told her everything I wanted to say. That after she left I couldn't help but stick my **** in anything that moved, that I was constantly in pursuit for the rush I always had with her, and it was always fleeting. That the pills she had help me save myself from were in my system right now, making the weight on my chest from her being there even heavier.
"I don't miss you. I'm doing better."
I tossed my half-smoked cigarette into the yard instead of the ashtray in plain sight. Some stones are better left unturned. You can awaken a snake hiding under it, and there's no point in fighting a snake who's venom you know you have no defense against. I couldn't tell her that I needed to lay my head against her stomach to feel normal. I didn't need to tell her that I was sorry for the scars I left her, on her soul. She didn't need to know that I often thought of putting a shotgun shell through the roof of my mouth, either so these thoughts could leave me be forever, or so the damage caused by several lead pieces of buckshot punching through my skull would cause me to not know who she was and what she had done to me.
I turn and step inside, and pour myself another drink.
My formatting *****
I'm not as sad as this may make me seem, it's just a scene I can't get out of my mind sometimes