I saw a photo of you as I was browsing and the memory of our first conversation, the first real one, came back to me.  Then I thought about our last meeting in the not-so-distant past.  When the possibilities faded and I had to admit that I had been played.  I felt like an idiot, and I guess I was an idiot.

– – –

I have the book you gave me on my bed, and this week continued from where I had stopped.  It was difficult to read, because I kept being reminded of the night I had received it.  But still, I kept it there on the left side of my bed.  Because I am still an idiot, trying to excise you from my system.

– – –

I was cleaning up my phone messages when I saw a few of yours, filed away, marked saved.  A great writer might be able to come up with a story from them, or maybe not.  I know I can’t.  Because I’m an idiot-and-a-half, unable to rid myself of all these thoughts.

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