Run run run run run
It’s just fucking amazing how much it hurts. My house is full of freshly washed clothes, dry for days now but I can’t bring myself to folding them because she helped me spread them out. It just… hurts. Remarkable how you actually feel it in your chest, too. There’s something there that you can feel shrink the very second you allow the right thoughts in your mind. It’s a constant battle, day and night. It doesn’t give you any rest and it’s so terribly exhausting. Nothing you can dump this weight on, no one that can hold it for you, if only for a day. Only she can make it stop, which is exactly why I can’t see her. It’s a nescessary process. But God, it’s so hard. I’m tired of fighting.
Is it a shame that someone else’s song
Was totally and completely depended on
Who’s gonna save my soul now
Who’s gonna save my soul now
I wonder if I’ll live grow old now
Already I’m thinking of leaving the country again. Fill my head with impressions, change the scenery so I can digest this in peace. She’s with her loverboy now, and I hope she’s happy. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I don’t want to hope that she misses me, that she’s sorry for all this even more than I am. Because it’s a slippery slope- to admit this, is to admit that really, I want her to end it. That she comes back to me, crying, screaming, able to make it undone and live happily ever after. But she can’t, so… in my face. Sucker. Weakling. I need to get a grip, a well-placed uppercut to make me face forward. Face forward. I need winkers, like a horse has. Black steel might help, life always did seem much more simple 20 meters up, if I can keep myself from tearing up that close to the sky. I think I’ll secure myself with both lines next time.
I look behind me and I see her on my couch, still crying. Her tears mixing with my own, at least I hope so- I don’t want mine to be the only ones. It’s fucking 5.30am again and I’m afraid to go to bed, I’m hoping to pass out soon. I’ve trained my biorhythm way too much for this kind of situation, any decent guy would be dead by now. I want to leave and run off, but I’ll be hungry and cold by the time I’m out of town. Maybe to Germany, because German doesn’t remind me of anything other than my job. And the war gives me a reason to hate as much as I want.
Take me away. Place my head in your lap and hum me to sleep. I’m sorry you can’t stroke me through the hair, I shaved it off. Maybe later. Much later. I had to start anew, I had to kill it and walk away. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, about her. About you. So… amazingly… sorry. I’m sorry I can’t find a better way to express it, how far into regret does that make me?
Come back. Don’t come back. Live. Die. Love. Hate. Hate might save, after all it was your fault. You let yourself be bored with me. You didn’t ask for more stories, I would have made them up for you. I would have lied with a straight face, something you never could. I was going to clean this place up for you. Tomorrow, but I was. I would have made it resemble a castle, was I too slow? Do castles look different? I don’t know, I’m no royalty, I’m scum. I thought that was enough for you, you said that it was.
Say hello to your prince. Tell him to get cancer and treat you right. I hope he’s lousy in bed, perhaps that is the only thing I am absolutely certain right now. I hope his cock is smaller than mine, so that no matter how "nice" he is, no matter how much whiter his smile is, he will never be me. You will be happier than you’ve ever been with me, but always, always you’ll have some gnawing little reason to miss me. Something physical, that can’t fade or be betrayed by poor memory. Miss me. Run away, do look back, never stop looking back. You’ll be the last thought in my mind when I finally die, crying like a child because I’ll never know if I was yours.