Fuck.

Fuck.

It’s not a fucking shock. I’m the turn of the page…Not the fairytale. 

Why didn’t I take my own advice? The fairytale is a myth. At least for me. 

You’ll find this truth in an earlier entry on this site; perhaps you’ve already read it. I knew this, roughly two and a half years ago, and I kicked it to the curb when I decided to steal someone else’s paint, slap it on a canvas like I knew what I was doing, and create a different picture for myself. 

And yes, there was another person in this picture but that was just an excuse. It’s just not meant for me, whatever the reason, and I know this. 

I’m meant for moments, not forever. Embers, exes, stolen moments.

Romantic Karma is not on my side. How many times does she have to slink into my kitchen and sit at my Formica breakfast table at midnight? Cigarette tilted between her fingers, one eyebrow arched at my current romantic disaster. When she speaks her voice is metal against dry stone and sparks glint red gold in the sheer darkness. 

“What do I have to do to make this clear for you? Her lighter flares and fades and her words are mixed with rising smoke and a considered sigh. I push my glass of whiskey toward her and she flicks it back with her thumb and forefinger, reaching for the bottle. 

I answered, more whisper than words. 

“Fuck.” I lean back in the chair and listen to it scrape the linoleum “I know.”

I rub my temples with the tips of my fingers and inhale the scent of her against my will; tobacco and sun-warmed skin soft against the sharp contrast of night air from the open window over her shoulder. 

“Listen,” she said, her voice a soft scrape. “Forever is a thing. It’s out there.”

“Yeah…but?” 

It was a prompt, not a question. I knew the answer to both.

“It’s not for you.” She ashed her cigarette into the unfurled wrapper of my cigar and stood to leave. “And don’t fucking forget it this time.”

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