Mais C'est Comme Ca

He's the man I love. The man that does my head in. The man whose car gives me a small thrill when I see it in the work carpark because I know he's inside. The man that fell short on so much that I wanted. Today we said what we always knew, that we aren't right for each other, we can't go on. This pseudo relationship/friendship/casual sex thing we had going on for six months...six months...can't go on, and this break up feels as fresh and horrible as the first time round. Imagining him out of my life cripples me with loneliness. We spoke last night like two real people, instead of the antagonising bullshit we overwhelmed ourselves with for so long, and it was nice, so nice. And we said let's not be sad and I couldn't lie in the bed next to him and feel his skin that I love so much, skin that I trace with my fingers, he calls it drawing, something that I have tried with others who don't even notice. And in the morning we both woke and lied together and were so sad, and then he left, and I cried an ocean. And then smoked the day away, to the soundtrack of Paole Conte's Sparring Partner, James' Senorita, Histoire de Melody Nelson and Arabesque, over and over again.