We swapped stories and spit; most times, we shared more than that. Great, even. My mind felt fatter every time I left you; it was pregnant with wonder. We became too indifferent to argue about anything. What a relief. I considered it in the most casual way possible. I really Liked You. We were too fun for that. But love? Love is a tattoo. Love is a car pileup. Love is a scar. Permanent; crippling; ugly. We made it to other places. We made it to the St.
We made it to my futon, where you made me watch Trailer Park Boys for the first time. I loved it. We made it to unmarked bars, to outdoor screenings of Casablanca , to the beach. We made it to the underside of bridges. We played poker, we played bocce, we played phone tag. We got kicked out of places together; we got locked out of places together.
That certainly counts for something. Sometimes, I made pretty good ones β like dating you. I learned that dating should feel good. Thanks for giving me memories, giving me your friendship, giving me hope. XO Drinks soon? Frequent Flyer Fatigue.
