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It's 10:43am on a Sunday, and I'm drinking a Tropicalia IPA with your sperm still inside me.
You're gone.
I texted you "I wanted to be exclusive and included in your life. I can't be a placeholder." The past tense was on purpose.
Last night was so horrible it was almost a gift. You arrived the latest you ever had and sat in your bear chair and closed your eyes and said you're tired. I was hungry, so I ordered the car. I paid for everything except the ride back.
We had decent oysters and crappy crab dip.
You dithered over all the movie choices I made. I bet you won't even install the Criterion channel pillow I gave you. You told me that you got yourself a nicer Roku than the one you gave me, and I had already been schooled that you'd only spend $30 on me.
Like I said or thought as I was seething in the bed after you fell asleep without kissing me on the sofa (the memory of you devouring me on that sofa burns) - you made it so clear you were so done with me.
It hurts to remember the times you lit up when you saw me - when you gave me your mind and liked to share things with me. I have no idea what happened - which part of me you saw that made it all change. Maybe it really was Wilmington.
I was in the bed at 10:45pm and got the notion that you were just fucking with me - so I checked to make sure you weren't playing on your fucking phone on the sofa while I was in the bed waiting for macon love that never came.
You didn't apologize the next morning. Normally, I scoot into you and you respond, but after you came to bed the night before, I had touched you thrice, and you rejected me even though I obviously knew you were awake and had hoped you'd had a bit of a nap.
It sucked.
to feel.
so, the next morning, I said to myself, if this fucker doesn't touch me, I'm getting out of the bed at 8:34. He touched me, and we had four minute sex. I guess I could be flattered that I turned him on so much. A proper fucking placeholder.
I made breakfast. He complained about it.
It wasn't that great.
We sat around in silence - comparing Worldle at my instigation and talking about how the movie we never saw the night before might have been good. My lips where sore from carrying the conversation so hard.
I wasn't allowed in your head, and I wore my simpy armor of a smile.
You're going to thumbs-up my text that took all the balls I had to send because I knew that would be the last tendril.
I didn't kiss you as you left. Or maybe I did, I don't remember - we only do pecks when you don't want to prelude to fuck me anyway. I said what you had said to me the last time I left.
"I had fun."
we both know that I did not have any fucking fun (the clitoris is located at the top of the two labia).
last night.
and I had had feint hope - hope that you might like me - that I could be fun for you again - that you could trust me.
it fucking sucked.
thanks for everything. you'll never read this, and I'll never talk to you again, but I love you so much it makes me sob now to type it. (and I swore last night that you'd never get another drop of salt water from my eyes). Wrong again.
back to beer.
Have a good cheeseburger king.
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