Aug 2015
You like him. You’re swimming farther and farther away from the shore you’ve built your ramshackle shed on and you’re going to forget how to get back because he’s funny and sweet and you believe him when he tells you how much he wants you.
You believe him when he tells you how much he wants you and you’re surprised that myth becomes the gale force wind that tears down your shed on the shore. And once you’re back on the beach, you know without a doubt, “I can be lonely even if I’m not alone.”
His smile is crooked and he’s cute in the way that makes your heart feel like it’s falling through the floor. You get down on your knees and you’re good at that, have always been good at that, and he tells you so. He seems genuinely sad that he can’t give you anything back, but he’s one of those guys that wants you to take him all the way and refuses to kiss you after.
You sit down on the beach and decide there’s no point in rebuilding the shed. You should probably take some time to listen to the waves.
But you’re nothing if not gullible and this whole twelve weeks or so has only taught you that you are unable (unwilling) to learn from your mistakes. Just because you mean what you say doesn’t mean everybody (anybody) else does.
He gets you to talk on the phone, a Herculean task in any right. He’s from New York and he talks baseball as well as you and he puts his mouth on you for so long, your face starts to go numb.
You held him for hours and stroke his hair and tell him some demons that live in your heart because you trust that what he’s telling you he likes about you is the truth. That when he says he could do this forever, you’re not going to have to be lonely. Or alone.
Time will tell on that one, but as gullible as you are, you aren’t dumb. You are a good story to tell, an invention, something he’ll tell his friends about over a drink back in New York. Never mind that you met his mom. He’s telling you, without a doubt, no matter how unreliable a narrator of your own story you might be, you are not the kind of you bring home. Or give a shiny ring to. Or even text back.
You believe him when he tells you how much he wants you and you’re surprised that myth becomes the gale force wind that tears down your shed on the shore. And once you’re back on the beach, you know without a doubt, “I can be lonely even if I’m not alone.”
His smile is crooked and he’s cute in the way that makes your heart feel like it’s falling through the floor. You get down on your knees and you’re good at that, have always been good at that, and he tells you so. He seems genuinely sad that he can’t give you anything back, but he’s one of those guys that wants you to take him all the way and refuses to kiss you after.
You sit down on the beach and decide there’s no point in rebuilding the shed. You should probably take some time to listen to the waves.
But you’re nothing if not gullible and this whole twelve weeks or so has only taught you that you are unable (unwilling) to learn from your mistakes. Just because you mean what you say doesn’t mean everybody (anybody) else does.
He gets you to talk on the phone, a Herculean task in any right. He’s from New York and he talks baseball as well as you and he puts his mouth on you for so long, your face starts to go numb.
You held him for hours and stroke his hair and tell him some demons that live in your heart because you trust that what he’s telling you he likes about you is the truth. That when he says he could do this forever, you’re not going to have to be lonely. Or alone.
Time will tell on that one, but as gullible as you are, you aren’t dumb. You are a good story to tell, an invention, something he’ll tell his friends about over a drink back in New York. Never mind that you met his mom. He’s telling you, without a doubt, no matter how unreliable a narrator of your own story you might be, you are not the kind of you bring home. Or give a shiny ring to. Or even text back.
Written July 6th, 2015
