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.