Looking through the archives, by March he was gone. The one love that I learned the most from, well I can look back now and call it learning when in reality it was torture, for him and treacherous for me in the long run. Monday he called to wish me happy birthday, I cried when we got off the phone. The torture prevails changing sides as he has undoubtedly blocked me from getting to him. He is sweet but I think his words and drunken advances were nothing more then a ploy to get me into his bed, but of course always the romantic I’d like to think he was trying to touch my heart again. Driving down my favorite road for the last time a panic attack began and I started to feel ripped apart. I knew I had left him too drunk for him to call in the promised five minutes or at all for that matter. I feel splayed open, cut down the center like a frog in seventh grade science. Heart and soul exposed, heart rare and vulnerable for the taking. To be taken between thumb and forefinger and smashed to a muddy crimson mash.
And now to put all the love and hot sweat out of mind and return to my domestication and loneliness, maybe it’s not really the adventure I kept trying to describe.