Kristin says that you’re a ****.
At two in the morning I took a drive by myself to The Middle Of Nowhere, Surprise, Arizona, and I’m just sitting in the dark, gazing into the flat black sky. The moon is dulled, hazy, and blurred by the casted smear of clouds, like my current opinion of you. I don’t know what it is that I should feel anymore. I haven’t cried in an extensive stretch of my life, which in real time is actually only a couple of days, but last week feels like a year ago to me.
It’s so quiet in my heart.
There’s no traces of hurt that I can muster enough delving to detect within myself, but I know that if I went back home and fell asleep in my room, I would wake up drenched in sweat under the covers, simultaneously shivering and overheated and silently overwhelmed, daunted by the absence of your love.
But right now, sitting in my car, curing like a taciturn husk of a person in the reticence of the night, I can almost mistake this detachment for serenity. The night wraps me in a blanket infinitely more comfortable than the ones on my bed, and nothing is out here to tie you back to my memory.
I don’t know what it is that I think of you, anymore.
Kristin says that you’re a ****, and maybe that’s true. But there was someone else there, too—there was someone of particular interest that I can almost remember, someone that had me feeling deeply every single “I love you”. But it’s been a year in my time, and I’ve forgotten. It doesn’t feel like you had ever been mine, and right now, sitting in my dark car, everything is completely, entirely, serenely fine.
I can’t see the moon anymore.