de.tri.tus.

It's easier to ignore it, to pretend that in the gray area the patches of black are merely memory gaps. I never asked the questions because reading it makes it fictional. All just characters in the novel. I shrug it off with a half smile but when I'm alone and I think of our time together I think about her, whomever she may be, and how she has somehow shoved herself indirectly into my life.

I shouldn't care, but I do. I don't know what questions I want to ask, I don't know what I want to know, or if I even want to know anything at all. I don't. I do. Tormenting either way. Will it always be in my head? Not talking never fixed anything.

I can block it out-- the images. But do you? No. I have so many. Enough for you. Those were different feelings then. Different times. Emotions. I didn't know any better. Desperation, need, habit. Drunkenness, induced-- sleep deprivation.

But you'll never know. Riding the bike, clinging to K, tears soaking my face. A horrible way to die. To live out the last seconds empty, already crying. Don't do anything stupid. Please. Thinking about it now, watching the film, tears in my eyes. Don't wish on anyone. Bruised and broken.

I would have climbed in his bed, naked. 100% certain. No questions asked, silent understanding. I had said it, I would have been all yours; slipping between the cool sheets, this: it's for you-- unrequited in some strange way. Still foggy, even now-- the hours on the couch, a hazy morning through Atlanta. I would have.

"I don't know." How can you not know? You were there. I'm the one who doesn't know. Don't worry, I'm not over it, either. Why don't you tell me, everything. Everything. Why do I have to ask the questions?