I got so that my insides were inflamed. You were making me so mad. And then minutes later I was talking about how much I had a love for life. And then all I could think about was you in the bed next to her. And she was in my spot. But I didn't want to lay a finger on her. I wanted my hands on you.
There was a time right after September 11th when we were on the same page, when we were on the upside of Generation Y. But then, like everything else, we became disappointments to each other. I'm not sure why it happened. I think it had something to do with expectation and something else to do with predetermined disappointment. And I got used to you pretending to know the real me and my infinite tragedies from before we met. I thought your choice in music made us soul mates. But all that really proved was that we shared the same facial expressions before looking in the mirror.
We made sense to each other and oddly enough, that is what confuses me the most. We were complacent about it all. And my heart was beginning to pound faster and faster in my chest. It got so loud that it drowned out all the visages I had of you smiling. It paralyzed me from the neck down. I couldn't feel anything but the slow and steady rumble of what was about to be the end of me.
And so I stayed there in the grass, lying on a fortnight, trying to figure out why it had all become so ominous. I cried for a very long time, all the way up to the drought. In fact, I brought it on.
And suddenly, without so much as a harbinger of the months to come, without so much as the shifting of a cloud, I could feel my fingertips.
And they were no longer blue.
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