It’s February in a part of Chicago where hearts break all the time. The coldest month of the year is reserved for Black History and Valentines day. (I wonder how alienated do you feel if you are white and white and lonely?) Last year, I spent Valentines day drinking Tequila out of a coffee mug. My friends had off and left me to go to a lingerie party in uptown. I didn’t mind to much thou, any girl brazen enough to venture into the arctic February dressed in lace and fishnets is way to sketchy for my liking anyway. Pneumonia isn’t sexy, not these days. So I stayed in and sipped the night into a deep stillness. Hoping more every second that my phone would erupt into that frenzied sporadic tune that indicated I had a new text message. More specifically , a text message from you. I’d hear the ring and gallop to the phone, It would be an ode to me in 160 characters or less about much you missed me, about how your life was, and how you hoped I was doing well. I’d respond with something allusive and cool and eventually we’d be faking misery together again, hand in hand. But the only text message I got that night was from a friend at the party, informing me that there were too many dicks on the dance floor, and that he was coming back to the apartment with beer.
I guess you’re a boat that drifted away from my shore, and I guess I deserve that. I forgot your birthday, and even thou you said I didn’t have too, I didn’t make it to your brother’s funeral. I’m sorry for being a ghost back then, I’m sorry for not being the guy you wanted me to be. I’ve sorry I’ve buried myself so deep but the best thing about you leaving, is the space left behind.
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