Let me tell you something about reality: it ain't nothing but a nut-job.
You can have that night, you can have that moment and moments tied together like some extreme, but then you can take it to the chin anyway with that one epiphytic realization that, well, you still care about so-and-so.
I think it takes time. Years, apparently. And in these moments of extra sensual extreme, finally I can maybe relent that for some reason I still relish those odd hurtful moments.
Things about her linger on my tongue. I can't remember how I liked the peach I had for lunch but I remember smells. I remember tears; bitter or just sad. They stand out, like they probably should, but they weren't an entirety, they weren't reason. And maybe it was a lie, some constipated momentary dual-dream. But inevitably it was truer than anything else. Inevitably it happened and sometimes I wish it didn't and sometimes I wish it always did, and still does.
Before the hurt, before the series of moments and choices that you play over and over in your head like some favorite record or sample you don't want out of your head. But I think it reminds you (at least, it reminds me) to be idealistic. To not move forward for just the sake of moving forward. To dream. To love and be loved in return.
I still love her, and I wonder if she ever did me. Sometimes I think she must of. Sometimes I wonder how she could. Most times I know it doesn't matter.
At least I hope it reminds me to do these things. I don't really know if does. I don't know if it ever really matters. And if it doesn't, it doesn't; because she did that dude(s). Because that is just sort of how things panned out.
