That you sent me on Sunday. I read it as I dodged endless carts of Chinese vegetables that I can never pronounce the names of correctly. And my borrowed fake silk scarf fell from my tangled, slept-on mop of hair right into a puddle…so I made the knot tighter around my neck, and kept the pace, as I always do - but you know that already, don't you?
But if only you knew why I'm walking around like this at three o'clock p.m. on the nicest day of the year yet.
If only you knew about the morning of rain in bed, plain toast, phony constellation t-shirts from 1992.
If only you knew that it's not you.
I can't bring myself to send any of it back. I don't want to have to be the one to tell you. It's been over since the day I left, and I can't go back, can't go back, to the place I was before [insert guitar solo]. Your 14-point Arial words just shake in and out of focus, and from time to time I'll go back to them because I can't even remember what it is I've read. Not making me feel better. But not making me feel worse, either. You're right. It is a shame.
So I've made my bed. I'll lie in it.