she was probably disinterested from the start, but spending hours driving around and talking would purport otherwise to the logical. Turns out, I was avoiding this truth from the beginning and hoping to become much like her, she was a bubbly optimist, full of cheer and normalcy. How the fuck could I love someone like that?
The second, most recent, the lovelier of the two, the brooding bigot who held opinion steady and safely flush against my own, she is now just, as I see her and I cannot help but hope I am wrong, a confused girl growing into a common woman. Afraid of so many things, she's unsure even about what she concludes after much rumination. And I understand this and I know it is absolutely true of her. How the fuck could I love someone like that? In the stark of now, I admit she was not like that. Not last summer when she verbally shunned existentialism because she didn't want to become someone who "lives in the now" like the rest of this generation. When she suddenly broke out in a facebook chat and showed me a poem about her former love, or object of torrential intrigue. And the word entropy stuck out like the palest of bodies laid in a row of the still living. And we spent an entire day together, and while under blanket - a thin agent of warmth separating our bodies from the moon - she, not me, SHE grabbed my hand and struck me at a place so deep I forgot I even had the depth to feel like that. And all the perfect, and all the peace, and all the love and life in the world was felt right fucking there. So how the fuck couldn't I love a girl like that? And we loved so many of the same artists because the unspoken agony we shared.
Well nevermind it all. She was a beautiful woman I must forget.
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