Twenty Three

There are still rose petals on the floor that fell when I put your dried bouquet in a box to be shelved for however many months. I must've swept that room 15 times and still, they manage to elude disposal. I step over them in the morning and when I come home and, on occasion, I recall the afternoon I spent on the phone with the flower people who assured me they'd be delivered at 4. It was nice to have things figured out for a few weeks. There's a certain comfort I found in what we had, despite its hurried birth and fiery ending, the inbetween wasnt bad. You're living the life you wanted all along, with a whole different sect of the populace to admire you. You're high off of those quick fucks in early morning hours from slim boys with shaggy hair who oogled your pictures with adolescent lust and "dreamed" of the moment you'd slide their hand to your throat and tell them to squeeze, while their hard little dicks worked furiously toward climax, before retiring to their facebooks and leaving more ego fuel in your inbox. You're where you were when you were fifteen. Back when people learned to warn people about you... It doesn't matter what's written here, I can be as bitter, or as scathing as I want, it doesn't change the fact that you were an excellent enough fuck that shaking you off was a month-long ordeal, but judgment and sobriety have a funny way of correcting that thought process. In the aftermath I've found solace in bettering myself, "living well is the best revenge.." and such, though "revenge" isn't exactly the term Id use; It has far too much conviction and dedication to be in line with my feelings toward it.. I still manage to still drag my emotions through the rollercoaster I put them on time and time again, like a zealous father of a timid child, who wants him to ride all the rides at the theme park, while the boy wants nothing more than to spend the day in the arcade. I've embraced my weaknesses, and bettered myself on many of them, while accepting and ignoring the ones that keep me up till 3am when I work the next morning. Recently, I've found myself smiling into dreamier sets of eyes, all the while knowing that they were waking up next to a bad decision sometime in the next few days, who's worth more to them than any amount of sweet nothings I could whisper in their direction. They'd eat all my sugar up, and become full and comfortable, but it was starvation where they felt the most at home, starvation that got that killer figure, and it was in the arms of starvation they would fall asleep comfortably, not tossing and turning. I've sought after the guide to that starvation method, I've searched every book, every corner, and every seedy friends practice, but I cant embrace it. I am plying a dead trade. In my mind I craft each plank expertly, pour the resin on thick and make sure she sits comfortably in the harbor, all the while knowing that I am a master at building wooden boats, only to watch them sail into rough seas, and the empty rewards I enjoy in kind are my personal success. I find that keeping myself pleased with these empty rewards not only makes the most mundane intimate encounter seem that much more special, but it masks the fact that I've become a sycophant to batted eyes and big smiles. They seem like a more like a pinnacle rather than a pitfall, and I revel in my ignorance to the contrary. For the record, I can still look at her and see warmth and innocence, no matter where I stand regarding the choices she made, she's still a creature of beauty, inside and out. The standard meditation sessions on long drives home have reflected more on the road and the rain than on unwinding, which only adds to the calm stress that's made its home in my demeanor. A slow burn that creeps out through subtle rolling eyes and sighs, but is fed with enough small branches of inconvenience and setback, that it wont fully extinguish no matter how many keystrokes I type or hours I sleep. I cant blame routine, or process for the way I've felt, I'm healthier than I've been, I'm enjoying good sleep, and for the most part, the relationships with my family and friends are quite well.. Why then have I allowed myself to be so tied up in the affairs of their affairs? I am supposed to be above this. And I cave in. I adjust and I let her slip back into the passenger seat post-marveling at how much I've pulled myself together in a tete^e^tete with her mother. God, that smell. That sweet smell coming from the right. Where the fuck have I been? Sweet amnesia as it registers with my brain that the smell is for me again. That skirt. Those thighs. That low cut top and those thick breasts separated by a narrow waist downward to those thighs. I could satisfy myself for days with those thighs and that sweet smell. She knows. She's mulling over her own checklist. Yes that is for you, those arms that used to toss you around just like you liked are still right there for you. Yes, you've missed them. The lanky fashionistas can fuck, but they cant fuck like I can. They cant hold you like I can, and you don't smell as sweet to them.. As the evening rolled, I caught that half smile and those massive eyes burning into the side of me more than once. Yes, I can wink at the other girls there. They sure can flirt, you were them once. They will never be you. At least not for more than a night. What the fuck am I saying? Those young little bodies couldn't keep up like you, and they wouldn't feel as good as you. But goddamn it if I'm not going to make you think I feel awkward while I stare at them, while I smile back, while I know you're looking.. Did it feel exhilarating to kiss him while you knew I was watching? I didn't mind nearly as much as you thought I did, but your saddened expression as you walked out when the cute brunette shoved her tongue down my throat certainly indicated that you cared. They hated you all along, that spit in the face from my friends was delayed by MY trust in you alone... blind trust that ended up being repaid in the form of ignorance and taking what I had for granted. I'm far too much for you. You need a nice frat boy to beat you around and fuck you like a whore. You got that with the guy before me, you said he wasn't worth a damn, you reminded me of that every time we fucked, and I always wondered why such a terrible person kept you for a whole year, you'd shower me with tales of how he could never compare to me. but it turns out, he wasn't half bad a guy, its just he could only tolerate your garbage for so long. I can sympathize. So here you are again. You fucked with the wrong boy, and you're on the ropes. Think this is the last time you go out and get spit on? Not after the fiasco you put me through... "Good-bye is too good a word, so Ill just say, fare the well.."