Those dresses . . . inhibiting our end.

I search for rewind, erase, ctrl + D. A conversation precipitated on seeing each other. Details. You questioned why I had been so “pissy” today and yesterday . . and an hour of pointless dialogue unfolded on the telephone. I driving in circles. Us never seeing each other.

The conversation- Why so many questions? Why was I pissy? I searched and now, search, for an explanation. And the only one I can find is that our growing companionship still has needs. Yes, we are not in a relationship. Conversations regarding such do not exist in our reality. The closest resemblance of such was your stated discomfort of not knowing where this is going, wanting a plan. This statement conflicted with your actions– the actions where seeing me takes a backseat. Yet, I know you “really like me.” You ask me to stay until Sunday. Yet, you have to go to sleep. The push and pull. The dance to see each other. Our departures nearing. The pressure felt. The dance failed. The emotions, vulnerability, heightened– the core of us, the freedom, dead. 

Our words danced circles around nothingness last night. Air. Nothing created. Nothing achieved. Yet, EVERYTHING was lost. Moments after we said goodbye, I called you back. My mind realizing the damage, the silliness. Can I come lay my head? Let’s just melt into each other and realize that when we see each other none of this exists. You didn’t answer. I wrote a text. “I was just going to say can I just come over, and we can go to sleep. That conversation was horrible, and I don’t think positive . . . ” You answer, “I think we both need to chill out, and talk tomorrow . . . ” 

Chill out. The words, a dagger. They take my breathe now. Words meant to follow drama or heightened emotion. Our conversation was neither. Simply silly. Pointless. You tell me I am leaving. You may never see me again. Are you building walls? Saying good-bye. Because with that dagger, that statement “I think we both need to chill out, and talk tomorrow.” the wound is irreparable. There will be no tomorrow. 

I want to delete your number. We didn’t have the backbone to support our conversation. There is no answer. There is no repair. I can only see this working should I find REWIND. Seeded in reality, the button doesn’t exist. We are not in a movie. A goodbye without words, it would be easiest. A dissipation of all that we had.

But, those fucking dresses. Why oh why, must I have clothes hanging  . . . I leave tomorrow. Fuck. What do I do now?


Those dresses, a second chance. However, I don’t believe this saboteur, our vulnerabilities, our hearts have time and energy for the sequel, the to-be continued

Adios, mi companero. Who needs dresses?


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