May 03, 2009

350: Love Was...

I've spent a long time trying to get post 350 out...

You sit there, in the back of the Cafe, watching people come in and out, buying coffee and then going. Occasionally, there's a girl who walks in and sits with another and you look at them a little green. You look back to your bare table, covered only in rough knife marks and the dried rings staining the multicolored surface. You sit and you work, noticing everyone who walks in, and you note them. Build, hair, eyes, who they sit with, where they sit, stuff your analytical mind just cant shrink away from.

Then she enters. Your ex. With another man. He's tall, handsome, slightly scruffy around the face. Everything you tried to do, but you failed at. You drop your face into your hands, feeling absolutely crushed. You want to die right then and there. Then you realize, they sit seperately, they're not together! Your eyes wander over the tops of your fingers to see this, and you perk up. If there is one thing girls want to do, its to keep you as a friend, and tell you about their amazing sex life. But that's not what she does. She apparently left you, and went gallavanting off to some foreign clime. You race, try to look distracting to her. She doesn't see you, and you slink away, in complete failure. You work, occasionally watching her out of the corner of your eye. You grumble. It was a long time ago, but you still cant get over her. She ruined your birthday, she really did. You wanted to kill yourself on your own birthday, but you cried. She wanted to be friends, so you stayed that way. That's all it was, life just kept going downhill. You failed somewhere, you really did.

She packs up, and she walks over. You sit back, aghast, and stunned. "Dont think I didn't see you over there. I just didn't want to bother you." You just shiver, and shake your head. "It wouldn't have been." "How have you been? Have you been taking care of yourself?" You shake your head. You pull up your right sleeve. She stares, and you can tell, her heart is twisting inside of her. Dried scabs, lines running across your arm, some still caked, fresh with blood. She starts to cry. You quickly roll up that sleeve and you try to comfort her. "Was life that hard afterwards?" You start to think, you can only mutter "yes." "I'm sorry then." She gets up, leaves and you sit back against the wall. Still dejected.

Grabbing your bag, you rush out, leaving the tip as well as your pen. You look left and right, she isn't around. You can only yell out something that can be best described as uncouth. You take your bag, punt it across the street and just collapse onto your knees and start to weep. It's all your fault. Again.

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