on being just another story

Lucky you were born that far away so, We could both make fun of distance, Lucky that I love a foreign land for, The lucky fact of your existence, Shakira (Whenever, Whereever)

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That’s gross,

He says, referring to the toothbrush comment.

I laugh in response -probably mumble something incomprehensible- and wonder why I’m having this conversation anyway.

The end point being that it is hard to distinguish between the real and the unreal, and to be fair,

There is no reality to a love that makes one feel alone.

It’s not real, it’s just a story.

The lines blur, are you reading what has happened, or what I think when I am bored and have not written in awhile? (I’ll give you a hint… “She” and “I” are not the same.)

I am not in love-

I don’t know that I’ve ever been in love, I used to think I wanted to be, but now I think I want someone to love me, which is quite different.

I don’t want love.

I want to curl up and sleep and wake up with someone next to me who at least for that night actually thinks I’m worth something.

Boys don’t often get that.

I’ll read about me next,

His statement reads like a question, and I lack an actual answer.

I try to decide if his voice is teasing or if he believes it,

But to be honest I am too drunk to have a witty response.

My night is full of ‘je ne sais pas’s” and a kiss to silence when I don’t know what to say;

It’s easy when it’s dark to accept what is there, then try to understand what isn’t.