No matter how good the intentions are human beings always seem to fall short.  It's unfortunate how late this realization comes, like water to lips that have been thirsty for too long.  I keep picturing you in my kitchen holding a gun to my head.  I keep picturing a cadillac with a dog in the backseat.  I keep picturing myself in your mother's house.  I keep picturing you holding your own hands over a toilet seat.  I keep picturing the nights I will have without you.  I keep picturing us screaming, our voices waking the neighbors like they always do.

I don't like the wind.   I don't like the way it demands attention.  The wind always brings things.  Change, weather, tornadoes, *******.  It's always brewing.  It's always there.  Even when it's lacking it's waiting for an opportunity.  I sleep with the fan on in the place I put it for you.  I wake up in the middle of the night freezing cold, but I don't dare change the setting.  I listened to that album you told me my love ruined.  I threw out the underwear with the holes in them.  

Every time I get drunk I feel ridiculous. Every time I press my fingers to my lips I wonder if you miss them.  I wonder what you are thinking.  I picture us in separate houses.  When I am forty and you are forty one.  I am doing something.  You are doing something.  Maybe I have kids.  Maybe you're married.  Maybe we still think about each other.