I’ve been searching the back of my head for answers as to the why and how, and the only logical and almost understated explanation I can come up with is that love had nothing to do with this. It was a clear shade of gray that kept us cemented in our outside views of one another. We were good at looking in, at hiding from what we considered logical for the sake of these enlarged portraits we had of each other. They were more than just those posted on throwaway backgrounds or cropped with modern machinery to look like Monet paintings. They were us faking it at a time, and now I know the truth. We were seasoned professionals.
I should have known that the abortion was just another shallow attempt at flattery just like the late-night phone calls and supposed suicide watch before it. It was just the way you were once; the way we both were I guess. I would systematically masturbate to mentally pasted pictures of you on other naked bodies and vice-versa, because I couldn’t bear to think of how you really looked, sprawled out on my creaky mattress, your hands tied behind your back while I tried not to remember the time I was the last one standing on my side of the dodgeball line, all the other students waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Maybe our entire relationship was like that, or a variation of that image.
We were hopping around with rubber objects in our sweaty palms, trying to aim accurately without any logical direction to throw the balls. Just so long as the round spheres struck and made a loud and abrasive thumping noise before each of us individually walked to our separate benches and searched for other tight and sweaty bodies in logo clothing to lick and suck once the right amount of thick jungle juice was in our systems, twirling around our insides to an improper degree.
But I guess it was just like everything else now, that’s in the past and you seem to enjoy fucking all the other saggy and affection imbeciles far too much. I saw that new one offer me up a fake smile the other day while I shopped for new dresses, all of my former multi-colored fabrics either stained white from semen or black from coffee. In any case, both had a nice and woody kick to them. They helped me to wake up in the morning, and the thoughts of such elongated tastes helped me get through the day. They were Christ-like, helping in epiphanies and above everything else, perfecting all of the available explanations at the time. We were perplexingly alive while still inside one another.
I just hope you post something back soon or comment with something quick and easy like that breakfast at your mother’s dinner table, the embroidered cornucopia placemats always out before the thought of holidays had even filtered into both our minds. I wasn’t thinking about what gifts to buy, but rather just ways to pleasure you after work, so thoughts of killing myself outside your bedroom window subsided. I hope this Christmas is better than the last, considering how quickly blood changes color in white snow.