So I've been dwelling on this for a month or so.
Haven't slept much in that time, as I thought about what I was going to say.
Tried rehearsing it as a speech--what did I have to fear, from this audience of one?
Couldn't eat. Couldn't think. Driven near to distraction.
Finally, the pieces fell into place, and we could talk.
All those careful thoughts were useless, I still cried a bit.
He promised he would fix what needed fixing--this time.
Still, I don't think it really hit home for him until he realized
I'd moved my clothes and some of my personal things into the Meg's room,
and told him I'd be sleeping on the futon for a while.
I don't know when we'd slipped from being lovers to roommates;
but the transition was both easy and difficult to do.
My doubt remains that things will improve, but we will see.
Amusingly, my fit revealed to him not only that he'd screwed up, and how,
But that he "still had a shot". If only he can get his shit straight.....
As I write, the television is on a channel that runs old, old game shows.
It is somewhat disconcerting to see a young, bubbly Betty White (from the early 1960's)
Along with a much, much younger Johnny Carson, in black-and-white
Play "To Tell The Truth", and sell Anacin pain reliever.
The video footage flickers where they've been unable to restore it.
Meanwhile, my mind turns with present conversations with others
regarding what qualifications signify a person as "nice",
and which do not. Am I a nice person? Others seem to think so.
While I do not. At least, not to the extent they seem to believe.
Boy, do I have them fooled, I can't help but think.
Actions speak louder than words, they say.
My actions, then, are of a selfish person.
Yet for some reason, people do not see this.
I wish I could see what they see.
maybe I'd be less confused. And less lonely.
On the other side of the world, a friend will be getting off work.
We think of each other a lot, and in ways that are not always correct.
I wonder where this friendship is going--where can it go?
The feeling is both familiar and alien. I feel accepted,
and yet I am cautious. I question the perfection. I always do.
I look around the miniature world my life has become.
old comforter-covered futon, older battered unicorn clock
ticking the evening away, tattered copies of books read
and escaped into when I was younger.
This sort of escape holds no charm for me now.